The Quetzal's Fire
by Harry Potter
Summary: The summer of Harry's sixth year begins with an attack by deranged men in masks. The summer starts events that may or may not lead to the destruction of the world- watch as Harry tries to win the war and the girl.
1. When the Jacks Have Gone to Bed

The Quetzal's Fire

Harry Potter

**I'm trying to start a Harry Potter fanfiction message board. Email me or go to my homepage link**** and sign up for my totally subjective admittance process. As always: idiots need not apply. Fools, of course, are more than welcome.**

**A/N: WELL.** This time I fully intend to git 'er done and write a goddamned story, not just snippets. I'm not sure who can hold me accountable, but, uh, yeah. But this is gonna kick ass. I'll write an outline too, but I want to run this pilot, as it were. Yes, I **(had)** jacked the title from U2. Yes, the new album is good. Yes, they're my favorite band, and, yes, George W. Bush sucks. How we got there I'm not sure, but it's true. Anyway:

**Part One: When the Jacks Have Gone to Bed**

It was, without a doubt, the biggest mistake Harry Potter had ever made. The trip to the Department of Mysteries undid his life. Harry kept going over June's events despite the fact he knew it couldn't be healthy. Four Privet Drive didn't provide any diversions against Harry's nightly replay of Sirius Black's death. The bereaved was keeping in touch with Ron, Hermione, and an occasional Order of the Phoenix member, but the Boy Who Lived was merely being kept alive as per Albus Dumbledore's orders.

The dream was always the same: Sirius appeared in the door, blasting away at Lestrange with his wand. Then there was the inevitable Black trash talk—then Harry watched, paralyzed as one can be only in dreams, as the only father he had ever known tumbled into the pit that spelled doom. Afterwards, Harry awoke and the guilt pummeled his chest.

Harry avoided sleep because of the guilt. The lack of rest was taking its toll on Harry: there were pronounced bags under his eyes, he blinked constantly, he was pale, he had headaches; he was simply miserable. Harry's depression was not manic, nor was he suicidal. He didn't need grief counseling. The eternally brave Harry Potter just needed a shoulder to cry on. All he had nearby, however, was a bird and three unsympathetic savages.

The young wizard had taken to climbing out onto the roof of the house's garage from his window. If the smog wasn't bad, Harry could see the stars; that was just about the only therapy he got: gazing towards space, watching a poor man's movie.

On this particular night, the 15th of July, Harry could see the stars.

_Where are you, mate?_ Harry's mind wondered._ We've been missing a good laugh, you know. The best part of my day is looking at the sky._ All of a sudden, Harry realized why the night kept him going: there was a rather large star blinking to the north. The dog star-

"Sirius," Harry breathed. A grin appeared on his face. Harry realized how tired he was and crawled back into his bed for the best sleep he'd had in months.

­­­

The following morning, however, Harry's brief spate of tranquility ended with the coming of _The Daily Prophet_:

**DEATH EATERS STRIKE FIRST**

_Long-anticipated retaliatory action happens last night_

The Dark Mark appeared over the skies of England for the first time since You-Know-Who's brazen comeback. The Mark was far larger than it had ever been recorded to be, with some wizards mistaking it for a newborn star. (_It _had_ to have been Sirius!_ thought Harry angrily.) The scene north of Manchester (_I'm practically _in_ Manchester!)_ was one of chaos and confusion as the Dark Lord's servants slaughtered three muggles in the street, then disapparated...

…memories modified…

…Dumbledore declines comment…

…Minister promises "counter strike"…

…memories of widespread fear…

…clear desire to avoid mistakes of the past…

"Yeah, sure," Harry muttered. "'Avoid mistakes of the past'… please… they could've done that a year ago…" But that wasn't the point. The main thing was that Voldemort was very, very close to Harry. No doubt Ron or Hermione had read the _Prophet_ and seen that Harry was in immediate peril… then he remembered that he'd be safer at Privet Drive than at Grimmauld Place or the Burrow because of Dumbledore's magics.

Harry sighed and flipped to the quidditch scores. The Cannons had, as usual, had continued their history of epic choking. Their seeker had been bludgered off of his broom five inches from the snitch with his counterpart on the Wimbourne Wasps just a yard behind him- the score was 100-10 Cannons just before the Snitch had been caught. The Cannons' seeker, despite the fact he was playing at home, didn't receive any medical attention until fifteen minutes after the match had ended. The team was now on the brink of being demoted to the second tier.

There was some good news, though- the Tornados had been eliminated from winning the league table (_Bet Cho's going to cry about that_, thought Harry with grim satisfaction) and the Wasps were clear favorites to wrap it up and reclaim their former glory, being ten points ahead of the competition with one week left. Harry scanned the front page again and headed downstairs for breakfast.


	2. The Inflatable Aunt

The Quetzal's Fire

Harry Potter

**I'm trying to start a Harry Potter fanfiction message board. Email me or go to my homepage link**** and sign up for my totally subjective admittance process. As always: idiots need not apply. Fools, of course, are more than welcome.**

**A/N: **Well, that was pretty rockin. I got a large portion of the story sketched out now and it's gametime. A small note: I don't consider it correct at all for quidditch or several other words invented (or popularized) by Mrs. Rowling to be proper nouns. For example: one would not write the American pastime's name as _B_aseball. It's _b_aseball. It shouldn't be Mrs. Rowling's responsibility to catch it, though; it's an editor's responsibility. The books are very entertaining but they seem very poorly edited to yours truly (sorry if I sound like a douche; I ain't the best myself, to be honest). So, with nothing more ado, here's the next installment.

**Part Two: The Inflatable Aunt**

Two days after the Death Eaters struck, more good news came, this time from Uncle Vernon. By this time, Uncle Vernon's summons, commands, and tirades had gained a sort of tradition. For the commands, the salutation was always the same.

"Boy! Get down here!" Harry then responded in the usual manner: he sighed, opened his door, and shuffled feet until he arrived on the landing. Harry then glared at his uncle resentfully until he said something. "Marge is coming to visit, though I don't know why, considering what you did to her last time!"

"She got what she deserved," replied Harry acrimoniously, leveling Uncle Vernon's smoldering bluster right back at his fat face. Uncle Vernon looked very much like he wanted to step outside with Harry, but the pudgy muggle knew he couldn't. The owls that so infuriated Uncle Vernon came daily; naturally, if anything was done to Harry as soon as he got away he'd write to his "crowd" and demand reparations or retaliation.Therefore, Harry felt free to give his guardian whatever lip was deemed fit.

"Whatever _you _think aboutthat doesn't matter! It's _my_ house and I will do what I please! Now behave, or…" Uncle Vernon stopped. He knew the ice was thin.

"What? You'll take away my food? I don't think that'll go over well," said Harry with a very pronounced smirk. "Not that you would do such a thing, of course." Rather than reply, which Uncle Vernon very obviously thought about doing, he stalked off and began speaking very loudly to Aunt Petunia about the evening's roast beef.

That afternoon, Uncle Vernon and Dudley drove to the station to pick up Aunt Marge. The Ministry had wiped Aunt Marge of her memory of the "expansion", but there was still an expanded, lingering dislike of Harry, as he was soon to find out.

Harry had been walking to a garage sale down a few cul-de-sacs. He didn't find any interesting books, just a few glam LP's, two broken toasters, an ancient pair of skis, and some movies made by some guy named Warren Miller. The people were pleasant enough, however, so Harry bought_Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars_and did society a favor by tossing it in an out of sight dumpster. The Dursleys couldn'texactly keep Harry inside Number Four all the time, so he wandered the neighborhood at will andin time hadbecame more popular with the neighbors than the Dursleys themselves. Nobody had ever really believed the stories about St. Brutus's anyway, so they were more than happy to chat with Harry while mowing their lawns.

Harry got back to Number Four in a cheerful mood, mildly wondering what he could do to piss Aunt Marge off to the greatest possible degree. Nothing really seemed plausible or logical, so he demurred, got out his key, and let himself in. Aunt Marge was taking tea with Harry's aunt and uncle.

"You!" bellowed Marge in her normal tone. "Get my luggage, will you?"

"Oh, I hadn't heard that porter service was included in your bill. Will I get tipped like Dudley?"asked Harry sweetly.Uncle Vernon was seething, but Aunt Marge cracked a sardonic smile. She was apushover compared to Snape. Who in the hell did she think she was? At the moment, she wasn't at all angry.

"Think you're better than us, boy?" shouted Aunt Marge.

"Oh, yes, very much. At least I'm not afraid of a sixteen year old." He paused, gauging his "aunt's" reaction."Take your own damn luggage upstairs, and I won't be giving my room to you." Marge was left dumbfounded. Harry had never talked to her like that before. He started to walk upstairs.

"_Boy! Get down here!_" ejaculated Uncle Vernon, always the quickest to recover.

"Bugger off," shouted Harry irritably as he slammed his door. He was going to get tired of having to shut Marge up all the time.

Harry remained in his room for some time, reading _Flying With the Cannons_ again on the garage roof. He chucked some rocks at Dudley as the pig's"gang" came home. They ran away without any encouragement.

"Hey, Big D! Rough up someone deserving this time, or was it just Nelson Scates? I'd watch out, because he might be a wizard like me some day." Dudley shrank back andimmediately started searching for a retort.

"At… at least I'm not too scared to come down and fight like a man!"

"Oh, rubbish. Is that the best you can do? I could take you and your entire gang any day of the week. You didn't even make it to the semis this year, anyway. Your opponents didn't have strange cases of food poisoning this time," replied Harry, going back to his book. Dudley opened and shut his mouth a few times, but then walked inside. Harry could hear Marge greeting the pig when he arrived inside.

"Boy! Dinner!"

Harry strode into the kitchen without apprehension and served himself, sitting down as the Dursleys waited for him to deliver their plates as well, as was expected.Harry simply went to his chair and started eating. After several minutes and unheeded dirty glances, Petunia filled everyone's plate and placed it in front of them.

Some time passed in silence. Harry could tell that Aunt Marge was thinking up her opening salvo. She opened her mouth, but Harry struck first.

"Look. I don't understand why you think you get to belittle me at every opportunity, but I won't tolerate it and I don't have to. So please, just ignore me if you can't respect me. I deserve respect more than the lot of you put together." Harry got up, threw his napkin over Aunt Marge's still loaded plate and strode outside for a walk.


	3. Out of Left Field

The Quetzal's Fire

Harry Potter

**I'm trying to start a Harry Potter fanfiction message board. Email me or go to my homepage link**** and sign up for my totally subjective admittance process. As always: idiots need not apply. Fools, of course, are more than welcome.**

**A/N: **Well, here's the third. I'm sorry about not writing posting this earlier; unfortunately I just got back from a trip and I've been bogged down with schoolwork. I've also started a new book, _The Private Life of Chairman Mao_, by Zhisui Li, Mao's personal physician. It is a fascinating character study- I haven't read any biography like it. Recommended, for sure. Also: I apologize for my totally rudimentary knowledge of British geography. I doubt Manchester is anywhere near Little Whinging, where I recall Privet Drive is located. Again, apologies to any British readers. Anyway:

**Part Three: Out of Left Field**

As Harry stepped outside, Lucius Malfoy did the same. The most obvious difference between their strolls was the locale: Lucius's jaunt occurred on an island between Ireland and Britain. This island was spelled to be swept constantly by storms. Twenty inches of rain fell upon it daily, while the wind was usually around eighty knots- this, far more than the fortress's typical defenses, or even its guards, was the main reason round trips off the island were as rare as a sunny day on there. The downside of the constant, brutal weather was he incredible wear that should have destroyed any structures on the island. There was only one, and it had stood for one thousand years: Azkaban Prison. It was spelled to resist just about everything, from cursesto lava to hurricanes.

Now, the inmates were running the asylum.

Literally.

The prison, populated mostly by the followers of Lord Voldemort, was a place used to cultivate insanity. Most of the prisoners had some sort of mental illness going in, being murderers, sadists, and just generally paranoid. That was further accentuated by the dementors, the only things that could actually survive the brutal conditions of the island's climate. Of course, now the dementors had assisted in breaking out the Death Eaters. The elder Malfoy was in charge of the little revolt, and he was quite satisfied with its execution. At the moment, he was standing on the rampart, a shield charm protecting him from the elements.

"Captain," shouted Malfoy over the wind. The head of the dementors glided over. "Have your… subordinates performed the kiss upon the spares?"

The top of the disembodied cloak nodded.

"Very good. No doubt your constitution is far better now." The dementor's only reply was to suck some of that pleasant thought away. Malfoy shuddered, taking the hint. "Duly noted. Gather the troops, captain. We shall meet you in the exercise yard in ten minutes. That should be the amount of time it takes for the aurors to arrive…"

Ministry of Magic personnel manned a small cottage on the coast at all times. Because of the various enchantments placed upon Azkaban, the only way to reach it was by boat. There was only one boat capable of doing the job, _H.M.S. Correction_. The brilliance of the vessel's name was, incredibly enough, surpassed by its superlative utility, durability, and comfort. While "going over" was hardly the most enjoyable task funded by the Ministry, it was not painful until you actually got there.

_Correction_ was an old Royal Navy destroyer, about 100', from about 1955. It had been modified somewhat after leaving muggle service, of course, and was often used by the government's dignitaries for embassies to other magical states. Most of the time, however, it was stocked with weapons medieval and wizards dour. There were even a few assault rifles, but they hardly ever worked.

In the cottage was a light board that displayed the status of the island. It was operated by magic (completely independently of the dementors) and was installed by the wise, cautionary souls who foresaw a dementor revolt not unlike the one in question. There were three categories: "Normal," "Tense," and "Bloody Hell." The third category, a red light, was illuminated. Klaxons sounded and awoke the task force of ten aurors, who scrambled to dress, strap on their enchanted armor, and grab their wands and armaments. They did not know how bloody the hell was that they were walking into.

Even as the Aurors boarded _Correction_, Harry sat on a park bench in Little Whinging. Voldemort had a plan that night that was elaborate and nefarious. Neither were unusual for his plans, but the former usually wound up being their undoing. Harry knew he was being watched by some member of the Order, but he also knew they could not show themselves for fear a Dark spy would compromise Harry's security. He wanted the company, especially after that pleasant evening with Aunt Marge, but he was as alone as he was the previous summer.

Harry moved to a swing and pushed off. It didn't compare to a broom, but it was as close to the real thing he could get. The activity was complex enough to let Harry concentrate on something besides his dark thoughts, as well.

_Up, down, up, down_… Harry had always been the best swinger at muggle school, but if he was on a swing Dudley and company would always toss their underfed punching bag off and take it for themselves. There had been one incident in particular in which…

There was a crack, snapping Harry out of his reverie.

_That sounded like apparition_, he thought, his tired mind snapping into action. _It can't be..._

Suddenly, Harry felt a blunt impact on the whole of his frame. Everything but his rightt leg had fallen off the swing- that limb was entangled in the chains. Harry felt his head concuss and scrape against the concrete- the woodchips had been scraped away by the many children who used the swing. Harry tried to draw out his wand, but the pocket of his jeans was out of reach. Whenever he tried to get up, he felt dizzy, and there was also the matter of that muscle that felt like it would tear. Harry was struggling so madly that he didn't see the woman behind him, dressed in a dark cloak.

Bellatrix Lestrange knew that her Lord would want the boy alive, so she began to get a stunner ready. She hesitated for a moment. He was more or less the one who had put her through a dementor-enduced hell for roughly ten years. It would be so nice to kill him, or at least give him a little pain. She shook her head, thinking of what kind of pain her master would serve up if she did execute the Boy Who Lived summarily.

"Hello, Potter!" Lestrange exclaimed vindictively. "Enjoying your muggle toy? You certainly look like a child to me!"

"Oh, really witty. Do you realize that every time I've encountered you you've said the same thing?" replied Harry, feigning nonchalance. He was quivering, and it wasn't helping with the feeling that he was going to black out, especially after he scraped his head around to glance at the Death Eater. Of course, it was more accurate to describe the motion as a squelch- Harry's head was resting in a pool of blood that was too deep to be from just a minor scrape.

"I don't have time for your feeble taunts and witticisms, Potter, because you have an appointment with my master. If you were so smart, you wouldn't have left that pathetic muggle's property!" spat Lestrange, wand sparking as she spoke. "Clearly Dumbledore has abandoned you!"

"That would appear to be an inaccurate statement," replied a cultured, accented voice. Harry couldn't place it, nor could he see its owner aside from their brilliantly white robe. "_Stupefy!_" Lestrange collapsed and Harry turned his head back to its normal position. He didn't bother struggling with the swing anymore; he was tired as it was and he'd lost about a pint of blood. Sleep would be nice…

Before Harry went under, he realized it could be a clever ruse by a Voldemort taking no risks. Harry didn't care, and it wasn't the Dark Lord's style, anyway. Why not send five, ten Death Eaters? Maybe Voldemort felt some sort of inferiority…

Harry awoke in an regrettably familiar setting, the Hogwarts hospital wing. It was dark. _How long was I out?_ he wondered, turning his head to try and look at the clock at the entrance to the ward. He winced as the scabs all over the side of his head cracked and started bleeding again. It seemed as if Madame Pomfrey had repaired his cranium to its full integrity, however. As he turned his head towards the ceiling, one of the doors at the entrance opened quietly. Harry tried to sit up in his bed, but his leg felt sore. He pushed himself up with his arm, grunting with effort. After rearranging his pillows, Harry collapsed into his pillows and looked at the benevolent visage of Albus Dumbledore.

"Good evening, Harry. It's about three in the morning. You were knocked out about seven hours ago." Dumbledore paused, searching for words. When he spoke, his eyes narrowed slightly. "Bellatrix Lestrange has been apprehended and is in the custody of the Ministry of Magic. Madame Pomfrey insists that I tell you that your skull isn't nearly as impregnable as you seem to think it is, and some of the muscles in your leg have ruptur—"

"But, Professor, I didn't go asking to get attacked!" Harry exclaimed, starting in. He could feel his temper rise. It was unfair for Dumbledore to blame him for that… and only months after Sirius died.

"Harry, Harry, my dear boy, certainly you don't think I believe that? You're quite obstinate." The old wizard's mouth crinkled in a smile. Harry shut his mouth, chagrin rising to his face. "It probably was not the best idea to be so far from Number Four at sunset, however," continued Dumbledore. "Nobody can guarantee your safety at any time, of course, but it is certainly far easier to protect you when you are under your blood's protection.

"Now, I have pondered the matter and I think that the safest place for you to spend the remainder of the summer is Hogwarts. I will not keep you here, though, if you do not want to stay."

"Stay? Why are you even asking?" Dumbledore smiled again.

"Excellent. Abd al Rahman has recovered your belongings, and they have been put in Gryffindor tower."

"Whozzat?" Harry asked automatically. Dumbledore's expression turned slightly more serious.

"Oh… he is a new member of the Order, Harry. He is the man who saved you. Not only that, but he will also be your defense against the dark arts teacher. And he is from Syria." Harry started from the sudden influx of information. His head still hurt too much to process anything properly.

"And, er… how do you say his name?"

"Abd al Rahman. You will be able to meet him later. I have one last bit of news for you, and it is not nearly as good as what I have just told you." Harry looked straight into Dumbledore's eyes, which narrowed. "All the Death Eaters in Azkaban have broken out. The dementors are now working for Voldemort. The human guards and those prisoners who were not Death Eaters were all given the kiss. The war has started, Harry, and we lost the first battle."


	4. Bloody Brilliant

The Quetzal's Fire

Harry Potter

**I'm trying to start a Harry Potter fanfiction message board. Email me or go to my homepage link**** and sign up for my totally subjective admittance process. As always: idiots need not apply. Fools, of course, are more than welcome.**

**A/N: **Well, sorry about the delay on the previous chapter. I was occupied with a multitude of things before writing it, and I'll be off school soon and I'll probably scrape up some time for two or three more before New Year's… hopefully. Anyway, here's what you came for.

**Part Four: Bloody Brilliant**

Harry awoke the next morning with nothing worse than a headache. Madame Pomfrey handed him a painkilling potion on his way out the door.

While traveling through the corridors, Harry was struck by the emptiness of the castle. It seemed even the ghosts were on vacation, and he didn't see any of the faculty until he arrived in the Great Hall. Professors McGonagall (in an ancient dress) and Dumbledore (in his full set of purple robes) were the only ones there.

"Ah, good morning, Potter. Do sit down, will you?" said McGonagall when Harry was in range. "Sleep well?"

Harry found it incredibly strange to even attempt to make small talk with a teacher.

"Er… yeah, I reckon so. I'm starving, though." McGonagall smiled and passed him the bacon. "Is Hagrid here?" Harry asked.

"No, he's off working for the Order," replied McGonagall.

"Indeed, Harry, we were just discussing the Order's current plans," said Dumbledore casually. "And the consensus has been that we should move into Hogwarts until we can find a more suitable location." Harry wasn't quite sure what to say, but didn't have to talk as Dumbledore continued. "That means that the Weasley family will be moving in for the remainder of the summer, of course."

"Bloody brilliant!" exclaimed Harry, pumping his fist. Unfortunately, he knocked over his tea.

"Oh, Potter!" shouted McGonagall, fighting back fits of laughter. It was going to be an interesting summer.

Dumbledore told Harry that the full Weasley tribe (including Bill, Charlie, Fred, and George) would arrive that afternoon at four, along with the rest of the Order. "And I'm sure either of us could find some time to assist you in whatever homework you might have," the headmaster added, winking. "Not a word, of course."

"And, Potter- you're the quidditch captain, so do try and practice, will you?" said McGonagall casually.

"'Course I will, Professor!" Harry walked out of the hall and ran up to Gryffindor Tower, whooping the whole way. He found his Firebolt on his bed, along with the rest of his stuff. "Brilliant!" he whispered one last time. Then he collapsed on his bed, wondering what in the hell he could do to occupy his time. Finally he decided on writing a letter rubbing it in to Hermione- quidditch captain! And think of how jealous she'd be when she found out Harry was going to be tutored by _Dumbledore! _Brilliant, indeed!

Grinning ear to ear, Harry ascended to the top of the Tower with his broom. He jumped off, doing laps around the castle. From her office, Professor McGonagall watched approvingly.

At twelve, Harry swooped down to ground level. He had a diabolical idea, one he'd never pull off during the term…

_Aw, why not… Filch isn't here…_ grinning demonically, Harry opened the doors to the castle and flew in, still very much on the broomstick. After a few close encounters with the corridor walls, Harry swooped to the Great Hall and dismounted in front of the faculty table. Its only occupant, a very tan man clothed in brilliantly white robes and a burnoose, clapped politely.

"Certainly you know how to make an impression, Mr. Potter," he said gravely. Harry saw mirth dancing in Abd al Rahman's eyes, however. The tall Arab's moustache quivered and he finally guffawed. "Do sit, please. It is a pleasure to meet you properly. Professor Dumbledore has already told you about my status, yes?"

"Yes, sir," replied Harry uncertainly.

"You need not hold any pretense around me, Mr. Potter- I knew your family quite well while I lived in Britain the first time." Harry's expression turned rather sour, and he started to open his mouth rashly. "I am sorry. I know you are still grieving over another loss."

"That's fine, Professor," replied Harry sharply.

"Now, now, that won't do. Perhaps some food will make you more personable. Oh, don't worry, I'm not eating anything exotic," laughed al Rahman as Harry raised his eyebrows. "Just a roast beef sandwich." Harry finally sat down, disarmed a little by al Rahman's affability. He accepted the plate of cold cuts with the full gratitude of an empty stomach. al Rahman paused. "I am sorry, it has been some time since I have spoken English," he said apologetically.

"Oh, your English is good," said Harry emphatically, piling meat and condiments onto his bread.

"I hear you are very interested in my subject."

"Yeah— probably my favorite," mumbled Harry through a full mouth.

"And who wouldn't be, in your position?" Harry looked up, thinking up a long tirade until he noticed al Rahman was serious.

"Most people," replied Harry carefully.

"I suppose you have a point." al Rahman looked for another angle. "Certainly secondary school defense against the dark arts isn't good enough to protect you from He Who Must Not Be Named."

"Yeah, I guess. But our teachers have been very good for the most part," Harry replied. He winked at al Rahman, who laughed again.

"Indeed, indeed. I suppose it is only fair for you to know that I have never taught before. Of course, one is told that my predecessor did not either, but who would have known?" Harry laughed. He liked the man already, if only for the deadpan. al Rahman looked around the Great Hall. "Though I did attend Hogwarts," the Professor added thoughtfully. Harry continued smearing mustard on his bread, knowing what came next. "I knew Sirus Black and your parents, somewhat— I am sorry to hear of your loss." Harry nodded, not looking up. "I am sorry," al Rahman said hurriedly. "I suppose the wounds haven't healed yet—or closed again, as the case may be."

"That's alright," replied Harry gruffly.

The rest of lunch, he and al Rahman discussed the upcoming term and quidditch while al Rahman politely waited until Harry had finished his sandwich, then bid him goodbye. "I believe the rest of the Order will arrive around three o'clock. Until then, Mr. Potter." al Rahman shook Harry's hand and went in the direction of the defense against the dark arts classroom. Harry shouldered his broomstick and headed to Gryffindor tower for a nap; the potion was making him see things.

Harry woke up with his alarm clock- 2:45. He pulled on his t-shirt and stretched, and, upon further consideration, decided on his broomstick as a very fortuitous method of travel. Positively sprinting up the stairs, Harry almost fell off the top of the tower as soon as he arrived. He then proceeded to almost fall again, this time in midair off his broomstick. Littering the air with blasphemy, he landed in front of the doors to the entrance hall.

Looking around, Harry noticed that the doors were different. There were metal bolts, not wooden ones. Investigating further, Harry opened them; he noticed the wooden crossbars had been supplanted by iron ones.

"I see you have noticed some of the changes we have made to the castle," observed Dumbledore sadly. "I'm afraid that they won't do anything practical, but I had them installed as a reminder of our peril nonetheless." Harry let silence hang for awhile, but then he asked a question he had been pondering the whole day.

"How is the war going to stay a secret? Doesn't Voldemort realize how dangerous it would be for all of us if the muggles found out?"

"I do not believe we will be able to keep it a secret. Certainly we were able to do so last time, but Voldemort underestimates muggle power. And he was far less desperate at its beginning— you must remember the advances muggles have made in communications as well."

"Why would communications matter? I mean, we can still keep everything under wraps, right?" asked Harry, genuinely confused. He had no idea what Dumbledore was talking about.

"You're doubtless familiar with cable television, aren't you?" asked Dumbledore, smiling now. Harry nodded. "Well, with twenty four hour news networks, millions of people are capable of finding things out before the morning papers. And there's the internet, as well. Ten years ago, neither of those were concerns. 1996 is an age of technology, Harry: we just can't keep things secret for long."

"Only rich people have those things, though. What's saying that a lot of people will find out?" asked Harry, still skeptical.

"It's not as if the media isolates itself! No, Harry, the press communicates with other members of the press- CNN will give footage to the BBC, or _The Daily Mail_ will get an article from Reuters, bless them," Dumbledore said fondly. He seemed to forget the discussion he had been having with Harry. "Good afternoon, Minerva. Will Abd be along?"

_Dumbledore's getting loonier_, thought Harry nervously.

"I think so. That man would almost rather die instead of be late," observed Professor McGonagall approvingly.

"Early is on time and on time is late!" exclaimed al Rahman's measured, rich tenor from behind them. "Not that my transcripts said anything about that, of course."

"Well, we won't begrudge you, Abd," replied Dumbledore, bowing so that his beard swept the ground.

The next few minutes passed in silence. Harry took a seat on the steps. al Rahman eventually followed suit.

"If it weren't this group, I'd be worried," observed Dumbledore to the air. "Ah! There's Alastor." Indeed, it appeared to be Mad Eye Moody, owing to the stooped, limping gait of the man who had appeared on the path to the castle. Harry and al Rahman leapt to their feet. Dumbledore extended his hand politely. Moody grasped it for an extremely long time.

"Dumbledore. Good to see you. Where will I be staying?"

"The faculty lodgings. Minerva can show you there now, if you wish."

"I'd prefer that… standing outside gives us too little cover. You might want to take Potter inside, Albus," grunted Moody.

"I don't think Harry's security is a concern at the moment, Mr. Moody," observed Abd al Rahman gravely. "I would know, considering how much time I spent trying to preserve it," he added jokingly.

Moody didn't really find it to be a joke, because he fixed al Rahman with a long, piercing stare. "I suppose, Rahman, I suppose. Albus, Arthur said that they're going to be late… you know how they are," growled Moody. "Anyway, the rooms- I know where they are." Dumbledore held open the door as the grizzled auror shuffled through without further remark.

Ex-Professor Lupin was the next to arrive. He said a few kind words of consolation to Harry before going inside. Mundungus Fletcher almost fell off of the broom he arrived on due to the large magic carpet that was wrapped around the tail. Dumbledore played innocent while McGonagall chewed out the Order's resident crook. Nymphadora Tonks and Kingsley Shacklebolt showed up at the same time, having apparated from the Ministry simultaneously. Tonks explained that they would only be staying for a few meetings— they still lived in London ("Toget'ah," snickered Mundungus under his breath, having reappeared after a few minutes of hiding from McGonagall's wrath) and had to go to the Ministry every day. Mrs. Abarella Figg showed up, greeting Harry familiarly and shaking Dumbledore's hand vigorously. Snape was the last to appear, ignoring Harry and Dung ("He's a git, dat'un," muttered Dung darkly) and merely nodding to Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall ("Wit no rispict fer 'is bitters, evin") before striding down to his dungeon office.

After that, Harry became impatient and finally worried for the Weasleys' appearance. Even Dumbledore was finding it harder to silence Dung's frequent complaints. Harry heard Professor McGonagall condemn Arthur Weasley to the inferno at about 3:45, which was incidentally the same time Ron came sprinting up the hill. He was redder than usual due to the effort he had been exerting.

"Oy! Ron!" shouted Harry, grinning. "What took you so long mate?" Ron smashed into his best friend unceremoniously and bent over, panting.

"Store… display… down…" Ron gasped for breath.

"Weasley! How far did you run?" asked McGonagall sternly. Ron, who had been recovering up until that point, started gasping anew at the sight of the assistant headmistress. Harry put his hand over his mouth, quaking silently. "Oh, forget it," McGonagall snapped. She drew her mouth thin and squinted down the path. "There's the rest of them." Harry pushed Ron into sitting on the steps, wondering what on Earth had been the motivation for the mad dash.

"_Ron! I will not tolerate this! You go back there and apologize!_" Molly Weasley was puffing up behind him, apparently not so deprived of breath as to shout at her youngest son.

"Sorry mate, but I can't get your back when your mum's on the warpath," said Harry. Ron made a whimpering noise. Professor Dumbledore was looking at the sky innocently while McGonagall gave a knowing look to Molly Weasley. Abd al Rahman had an expression of skepticism mixed with curiosity, while Dung was making a pathetic effort to look small as Mrs. Weasley arrived at the doorstep, still spewing spiddle.

"_Ron! How dare you! Causing a scene like that… I ought to have you locked up!_" she finally noticed the assembled party. Harry jumped when she made to embrace him. Mrs. Weasley apparently didn't notice, because she greeted Dumbledore. "I'm so sorry Albus, we got caught up because _Ron_ here decided to go into Zonko's and break half the displays in the store!"

"I didn't do it, mum!" protested Ron in earnest.

"_Not another word from you!_" bellowed Mrs. Weasley. "_You ought to consider yourself lucky that Professor McGonagall can't give you detention yet!_" Ron apparently hadn't noticed McGonagall's presence, because he tried to jump into Harry's arms again as soon as he turned around.

"I… ah… would be happy to compensate the store," proposed al Rahman cautiously, reading Ron's expression of _help, please_ correctly. The rest of the family had caught up by now, including an angry Arthur and his amused children.

"No, Abd, that's quite fine. _Ron_ needs to do it to _learn something about respect_!" screamed Mrs. Weasley.

Ginny tapped Harry on the shoulder. "Fred and George actually did it. They've been trying to get an upper leg on Zonko's for months," Harry noticed the twins slipping inside quietly. Fred winked as they hauled their trunks through.

Harry grinned. Things were going to be fine this summer.


	5. Need to Know

The Quetzal's Fire

Harry Potter

**I'm trying to start a Harry Potter fanfiction message board. Email me or go to my homepage link**** and sign up for my totally subjective admittance process. As always: idiots need not apply. Fools, of course, are more than welcome.**

**A/N: **No doubt everyone knows that _Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince _arrives in stores July 16, 2005. Basically, that means my title is fucked (as is the story). Regardless, I hope this'll be an entertaining diversion till we finally get the damn book (or, in my case, the baseball season starts). Without further ado, welcome back to the excitement, intrigue, and romance that is "Harry Potter and the Unforgettable Fire." Enjoy.

**Part Five: Need-to-Know**

Everyone present at the castle seated themselves at the head table for dinner that night. All but the faculty found it extremely awkward, owing to the fact that the assembled company had all been students at Hogwarts. The Weasley twins in particular found it ironic.

"Never thought I'd be sitting up here," said George, surveying the hall.

"Yeah, not unless Snape put our heads on stakes," cracked Fred.

"I do not believe I would have bothered, given the opportunity," remarked none other than the Potions Master, exhibiting his unnaturally good hearing and cheer while sweeping in in his usual dramatic fashion.

"That would have given me some satisfaction, Severus. I daresay that I would have done it, 'given the opportunity.'" added Professor McGonagall, taking her customary seat to the right of Dumbledore's carven chair.

"Since when was she such a wisecrack?" whispered Ron nervously. In Ron's book, Professor McGonagall making jest was not so much a sign of the approaching apocalypse but a screaming billboard.

"What?" asked Harry, who had been looking at Ginny the whole time. "Oh, yeah, I don't know mate."

Fred and George were spared further grief with the arrival of Professor Dumbledore:

"Everyone is here, I see… wonderful, wonderful. I'd like to say a few words, then we can attend to some business. We will all be living here for some time, though for how long I am not sure. I can't think of any obvious places to move to. Certainly, however, we need the Order working in one secure place in these difficult times." Dumbledore beamed around the table. "I will make a few more remarks after we have eaten. No doubt your travels have left your appetites wanting." At that, a typical Hogwarts dinner spread appeared on the table. Ron, sitting on Harry's right, struck first on the mutton chops, making a semi-orgasmic sound.

"That bad, is it?" asked Harry as he liberated a few potatoes from a bowl.

"Shupt uft," Ron said cheerfully. Harry's compadre had put on yet another couple of inches— at least 6'2" by Harry's reckoning. Harry supposed that something needed to fuel the expansion.

_Speaking of expansion_… thought Harry, looking at Ginny's midriff. He shook his head. _Bad call, mate._

Harry inclined his head towards his plate, feeling himself redden a little. He started shoveling it in.

Ron wasn't the best of dining partners: he never said anything during the trafficking to his mouth. Nor was Mundungus Fletcher; the crook appeared not to spend money or time on such frivolous things as good food. Indeed, little was being said while the Order of the Phoenix was consuming their meals, beyond the (presumably) intellectual conversation the delicately eating Remus Lupin and Abd al Rahman were engaging while Percy Weasley listened attentively from across the table.

"No, no, Abd, I can assure you it's Doyle's _Discourse on the Bohemian Warlock Code_ that first outlines a plurality of the systematic study of corporeal transfiguration. al Andalus didn't contribute anything until 1200, at least. Several fields had already been established," said Lupin, with an air of finality.

"Remus, Remus. Córdoba was the center of that movement and you know it. Bohemia wasn't even an idea until several hundred years later. German principalities were totally subservient to the Holy Roman Empire at that point and actually contributed their finest warlocks to the reconquista to try and get the upper leg on transfiguratory research. God knows why, though… the whole thing was orchestrated by the church. It may be true that _some _minor were made in the Bohemian system. That's why Bohemian transfiguration is a total misnomer. Wolfstein didn't even get published until 1512, which is a mere twenty years after the last Andalusian libraries were looted. even if there were earlier contributors, the reconquista had been going on for several hundred years! It's a typical Western mentality, that you invented _everything_ of substance…" whatever al Rahman's point was, Harry didn't really care. The greatest discovery in his mind was the one he had just made: barbecue chicken.

Fred and Dung were the last ones still eating. Dumbledore removed their plates with a casual wave of his wand, despite their protests. Eventually he got them to shut up and started his speech.

"Thank you for coming. I did want to move to Hogwarts sooner, but I decided it was strategically wanting to do so so soon after Sirius Black's death." Dumbledore shot Harry an apologetic look and continued. "And, specifics. The move, in particular. I believe that we need not vacate the premises during the students' term, nor do I believe we should use a cover story beyond a minimum level of secrecy. Certainly, an unbelievable excuse is hardly sufficient for Hogwarts' excellent student body."

Snape snorted audibly, his head resting on his palm, but Dumbledore pretended not to notice. Harry glared at his least favorite teacher but was ultimately ignored.

"During the term meetings will be conducted in my suite, of course, and with the usual stipulations. Alastor, I want to remind you in particular that I have full confidence in my protections and insurances, so it will not be necessary for any midnight checkups on such arrangements. Moving on…" Dumbledore glanced at his notes. "Ah, of course… Harry, Ronald, Ginny, I must ask you to leave. Severus, please do start your report. I need to chat with these two." Dumbledore stood up, as did Harry and Ron, albeit far more reluctantly. Harry and Ron scuffed their feet the whole way out of the Hall, with Dumbledore as an escort. Mrs. Weasley could be heard thudding her head on the table for lack of hope. Harry didn't care, though, still resenting being left in the dark. As soon as Dumbledore closed the doors behind them, Harry stared in on him rather loudly.

"Professor, didn't you say that I would be told more? Someone got killed the last time you didn't tell me everything, and it's not fair that you're doing it again—" Ron's eyes widened. He hadn't heard anyone talk to Dumbledore like that, especially a student.

"Harry, this information does not pertain to you," said Dumbledore calmly. "It is information on Voldemort's" —Ron whimpered— "next wave of attacks."

"Why shouldn't it matter to me?" demanded Harry defiantly. He stared Dumbledore straight in the eye. Coming to Hogwarts had made the situation a little more tolerable, but that wasn't to say that Harry's life was any easier. He still had awful dreams every night and his waking hours were filled with terrible mental punctuations regarding his fate from his first birthday on. Certainly predestination was enough of a qualification for relevance.

Dumbledore was the first to look away, but he quickly focused on Harry again.

"Harry, I will not say anything more to you this to my office tomorrow at one thirty. I will see you then, but for the moment, I am missing Professor Snape's report." Dumbledore nodded curtly and returned to the Great Hall, closing the massive doors quietly.

"What's all that about?" Ron asked. Harry still had not told him about the prophecy's full extent.

"Nevermind. I'll tell you sometime," said Harry.

"I think he's pretty angry," Ron observed. His voice was filled with worry.

"Yeah," replied Harry, avoiding Ron's concerned gaze.

Dumbledore's quiet was miles more intimidating than his rage.


	6. Get Through

The Quetzal's Fire

Harry Potter

**I'm trying to start a Harry Potter fanfiction message board. Email me or go to my homepage link**** and sign up for my totally subjective admittance process. As always: idiots need not apply. Fools, of course, are more than welcome.**

**A/N: **I recently watched _Star Wars_ again, kicked ass… _Lord of the Rings,_ also. I'm bingeing on non fiction- still that Mao book and soon a study of governmental history entitled _What's the Matter With Kansas_. It studies the shift of Midwestern political thought from the radical left to the radical right. I'm pumped for it. Musically, I'm listening to Death Cab For Cutie… cool emo/rock band out of Bellingham that's starting to break nationally. If you can, get their album, _Transatlanticism_. It's a good one.  
I've decided a large portion of the story will not occur in Britain and Ireland and will be about backstory… the plot is about half finished… likely it will also go into the seventh year even if it don't it will end conclusively.

**Part Six: Get Through **

Harry went to sleep that night angrier than he had been for some time. Initially, he'd been worried. Dumbledore was very difficult to piss off if you were on his good side, and Harry certainly was in that category. Yet as the day passed and separation appeared between the actual events of the night and Harry's meditations upon them, indignation reared its head. Why _didn't_ Dumbledore let Harry on the inside? Wasn't Harry supposed to be told everything? Hadn't Dumbledore said last year that Harry was supposed to know Voldemort's movements? Sirius had died, as had something in Harry.

_He's just like Voldemort_, seethed Harry furiously to himself. _He's a manipulator, he doesn't care about anyone. He's so self righteous…_

The next morning Harry slept late, waking up at ten. Ron was waiting for him in the common room. He appeared to be eager to avoid any mention of Harry's meeting with Dumbledore.

"I saved you some food,"

Harry nodded. It was uncivil to be talking so soon after waking up, in his mind.

Ron knew his friend's views on mornings, so he stayed quiet while Harry belted back some tea. Fortunately for Ron, he didn't have to stick his neck out for a Potter explosion. That came on its own.

"I can't _believe_ Dumbledore! He said that he'd tell me what Voldemort's doing! Sirius _died_ because of that!" Ron had heard it a million times before.

"Dumbledore's angry, mate. I'd worry about that before you go exploding," said Ron cautiously.

"Oh, now _you_ think I'm overreacting too! Don't worry, he's managed before, he'll keep managing," shouted Harry. "I can't believe this."

"I can't either, mate, because you obviously think I don't want to know anything" replied Ron in kind. "You have about as much to do with You-Know-Who's plans as Merlin's beard!"

Ron, in his forgivable ignorance, was dead wrong about that.

Harry stormed out of the Gryffindor common room and went to sit by the lake, fuming. He didn't quite wind up getting there, however.

"Hi Harry," said Ginny brightly. "How are you?"

"I'm, er, fine I guess," replied Harry, developing an appreciation for his shoes that had incredibly enough never existed before. It was embarrassing for Harry to discover that Ginny Weasley had become so attractive, despite the irony. "How about you?"

"Fine, I suppose," replied Ginny. "Where're you headed?"

"I fancied a walk around the lake," said Harry nervously. _That's not all_ _I fancy…_

"Oh, brilliant. Mind if I come?"

"No, no…"

They set out. Harry had eyes locked front, but Ginny was looking at him curiously. She didn't say anything until they reached the shore.

"Lousy summer you've been having,"

"Yeah," replied Harry miserably.

"Death Eaters on your street?"

"Yeah. I was on swings when Lestrange snuck up on me. She didn't even go frontal," Harry observed bitterly. "Am I really that worthless?"

"I wouldn't say so," said Ginny matter-of-factly. "What you did in June was a good thing, even if… it didn't turn out that well." Harry turned on Ginny, but her face was mild. He flushed red and looked away again.

Ginny pretended not to notice and pressed on.

"It was brave, at least. You were trying to save someone's life, after all,"

"Yeah, well, I haven't thought of that before," replied Harry acridly. "And what a _great_ job I did!" He sat on the grass with a thud. Ginny did the same, minus the force.

"Look, Harry," she said, "nobody wants you to keep feeling sorry for yourself. It's been two months almost. Don't act all innocent, either, because I heard you going off on Ron this morning."

Harry turned and looked at Ginny. His face was still red, but it wasn't out of bashfulness.

"Oh, so he's sent you to make me feel all guilty? Thanks but no thanks,"

"No, I came myself. Both of you were miserable the last time you got into a spat like this," Ginny replied simply. Harry noticed the way the sun outlined her hair and rested his head on the grass. She did the same.

There was more silence for awhile.

"You're funny," she said. Harry looked over and noticed she was smiling a little. She returned the gaze and grinned.

_Dammit, Harry, think of something to say, _he thought desperately. Nothing came, so he went to the standby.

"No clouds."

"No," replied Ginny, bemused. "The sky's nice, though,"

"Not much fun looking at it without clouds, though," Harry observed.

"A little pointless,"

"Comfortable, though," added Harry frantically. "The grass is good."

"Yeah," said Ginny. Harry watched her chest rise as she inhaled. He didn't try and say anything more, though. They just sat there for awhile.

It wasn't until Harry reached the entrance to Dumbledore's office that afternoon that he realized that he didn't know the password. He was, however, spared the problem of trying to guess it by the Headmaster's arrival.

"Ah. Hello, Harry," said Dumbledore cordially. "Blood pops." The stone escalator made itself visible as the professor gestured for the student to go first.

Harry sat down in front of Dumbledore's desk feeling more foolish than anything. The Headmaster sat across from him and leaned forward in his chair.

"Harry, I would be lying if I were to say that I understood what you are feeling. At the same time, however, it would be advantageous if you stopped resenting all who show concern for your welfare." Harry looked at the floor, embarrassed. "Harry, let me make it clear that I am not doing any of this to spite or punish you. Your anger towards me is puzzling, to say the least."

"Puzzling? Even after June?" Harry shot back. The embarrassment was fading fast.

"Yes, Harry. It has been almost two months," said Dumbledore apologetically. "I myself lost my parents at an early age, and I do not recall being so angry as you yourself are now. Of course, it was over one hundred fifty years ago, so I could be forgetting the details of the affair,"

Harry was stunned. He had no idea Dumbledore's sympathy wasn't that of someone who misunderstood and never gone through the same thing.

"I… I had no idea, Professor."

"That is quite alright, Harry," said Dumbledore gently. "You didn't know. You also don't know the things I feel obligated to tell you right now. But let me impress upon you this: be selective of what you tell your fellows. The information I have chosen to tell you and will tell you in the future is sensitive and has been chosen carefully. It is only what will pertain to you. Lives are risked procuring it and it is not with a light heart it should be absorbed. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Professor," replied Harry gravely.

"Very well. Now, the thing I will be discussing with you today is your mental state." Dumbledore was businesslike once again. "I know you have not mentioned any visions in your correspondences to Order members over the summer, but are there any you did not mention to them?"

"No, Professor," replied Harry.

Dumbledore regarded him for a moment. "Very well. I have considered the matter recently and I very much believe that you are not in the forefront of Voldemort's thoughts. He seems to be focused on amassing his army and equipping it with who knows what. How he is arming himself is the main question we are dealing with at the moment. His group of followers is unlikely to expand beyond what it was in the first war. Lord Voldemort is now a very experienced general."

"Were there any battles in the last war, Professor?" Harry asked after a pause.

"No, not in the way you are used to them, Harry. This would not so much a war as a 'cold' war. I believe even describing the strife in question as a guerilla war would be incorrect. There are significant events, of course, and large fights between several wizards. Beyond that, it is mostly a spy game. The best connection I can draw between muggle warfare and that of Lord Voldemort is of a terror cell fighting an established government."

"I say best because I cannot tie this 'war' to a conflict in the muggle sense. There are supporters of Voldemort in the very society he is trying to defeat. It is a paradoxical situation, to say the least." Harry was not assuaged.

"Were there any specific events?"

"Yes, of course. His killings and the pursuits of his Death Eaters were the main thing. But I do not believe that this war will be fought in the same way. It will probably be the kind of war you are more familiar with."

The machines whirred and the clocks ticked. The sun shone on the floor of the Professor's office; it was truly a brilliant summer day. War could not have seemed farther away to Harry.

"Why is that, Professor?"

"Lord Voldemort is enraged, Harry. He was struck down at the very height of his power, the moment when his triumph should have been complete. The murder of your parents was just the beginning of the campaign that would have eliminated the Order of the Phoenix through the spywork of Peter Pettigrew.

"With such a trusted and strategically placed mole, there was nothing that could have prevented his ascension. He had moles in the Ministry of Magic, of course, but the Ministry did not ever really do as much as the Order," said Dumbledore sadly. "I am afraid we were preparing to fight a defensive war when the Dark Lord encountered you."

They sat in silence for awhile. "Is that all, Harry?"

"Yes, Professor." Harry made to leave.

"Harry, I have more to say. Please sit again. It will not take long." Harry nodded, and sat.

"I believe that you and I should continue your occulmency lessons. Just because Lord Voldemort has not sent you any visions for several months does not mean that you should not try and shield yourself from him. In fact, his constant interference is probably disadvantageous while you are trying to learn such a skill. Even if he does not try and plant things in your mind, it is still a useful skill to have," Dumbledore smiled. "Also, Professor McGonagall discussed your ambition to become an auror with me. It is hardly a surprise, I suppose, but it presents challenges to you. Here—" Dumbledore reached into his desk and pulled out a sheet of paper "—are your grades from the Ordinary Wizarding Level. Outstanding in defense against the dark arts and care of magical creatures." Harry grinned as Dumbledore gave him a bemused look. "Exceeds expectations in transfiguration and charms. You earned an average grade in potions, which is the problem. History of magic and divination were parents of failing grades." Dumbledore's beard twitched. "If it were not for the very high academic standards I and my faculty impose upon the school—" Harry resisted the urge to laugh "—I would simply say that your grades do not reflect your aptitude or skill. However, I must say, but only to save face, of course, that your grades are disappointing." Harry's cheer vanished quickly. "But, of course, the circumstances of the last year were extraordinary for the student body and especially for yourself."

Harry was shocked. Dumbledore, it seemed, was willing to look over anything for Harry's benefit.

"Of course, since your arrival at Hogwarts, it has probably been the most chaotic five years of my tenure. Perhaps anyone's tenure," Dumbledore said circumspectly. "But. Your grades. Certainly, chaos is not the most likely of things to interfere with Severus Snape's class for most students. Yet, in your case, Harry, last year may have been the hardest of your life."

"I wouldn't say that, Professor," replied Harry wearily.

"Perhaps not. But I have spoken with Professor Snape, and he sees no… er… _real_ reason why you should not study potions with him for the rest of the month in order to prepare you for NEWT level potions." Harry positively leapt up from his chair. Dumbledore may have been subjective, but he was Harry's hero once more.

"Thank you Professor! I won't fail you!"

"Harry, I would be more concerned about Professor McGonagall than myself," said Dumbledore, laughing. The old wizard was touched. "You may go, Harry." Despite himself, Dumbledore had become to love Harry Potter as the son he had never had.

Harry's next order of business was to apologize to Ron. Professor Dumbledore's words and, in particular, Ginny's, were enough to convince Harry he needed to stop being a malcontent. His thoughts wandered to Ginny. It was incredibly ironic that he should be falling for Ron's kid sister; especially it was the opposite way just a few years ago. More than anything the situation was pathetic. Harry arrived at the Fat Lady and swore there and then that he would do better than he did with Cho.

"Oh, hello dear," said the Fat Lady. She swung her painting open; the portraits didn't have to ask for passwords over the summer.

Harry found Ron in the dormitory, unpacking. Ron didn't look up as Harry came in.

"'Lo, Ron," said Harry. Ron nodded. "I'm sorry about what I said this morning. I was mad at the wrong person."

"Yeah, I'd reckon so," replied Ron. "Apology accepted." Harry told Ron about the meeting with Dumbledore.

"He says that I can take NEWT potions but I have to study with Snape,"

"Don't worry, he won't try and kill you with the whole Order here," said Ron with a grin.

"Oh, thanks, Ron," replied Harry. "You're a great comfort,"

"What're friends for?" asked Ron gravely.

Suddenly, however, Fred and George burst into the room.

"Harry's here without an explosion!" exclaimed Fred.

"What's wrong?" inquired George.

"Surely our hero isn't ill?" wondered Fred in mock concern. George produced something that looked remotely like a car jack and made to put it in Harry's mouth.

"Oh, come off it Harry, we're just trying to give you a checkup," said Fred wickedly.

"You two are the embodiment of evil on this Earth," declared Harry good naturedly while trying to push George back with a pair of tweezers. It wasn't going so well.

"We take it very seriously," said George.

"Yes, You-Know-Who has nothing on us," added Fred pompously.

"We even placed ourselves in Gryffindor Tower _after_ we graduated."

"You can't be serious!" moaned Ron.

"Oh yes, dear brother, we've been placed here to look after you. I still can't believe we pulled that one off," said George impishly.

"But, that is not the reason of our visit," Fred said. "We were in fact wondering if you lot would break the monotony with a spot of quidditch."

The twins were indeed carrying their brooms in hand.

"When am I not ready for quidditch?" demanded Harry.

"Let's see… how about…"

"…the '91 final?"

"Unconscious in the hospital…"

"…'95 final…"

"You were banned, as you might remember,"

"Same with you two," said Harry, glaring.

"Last one to the top of the tower has to keep!" bellowed Fred, and they sprinted out of the room and pushed off the roof in earnest.


	7. The Big Three

The Quetzal's Fire

Harry Potter

**I'm trying to start a Harry Potter fanfiction message board. Email me or go to my homepage link**** and sign up for my totally subjective admittance process. As always: idiots need not apply. Fools, of course, are more than welcome.**

**A/N: **I began writing this story in Hong Kong, so I figure may as well say something about that insane and incredible place. It's the densest city in the world. 10 million human beings are crammed into what I think is less than ten square miles.  
Yeah.  
It's also probably the richest place in the world by square inch. An incredible amount of wealth is crammed in there. Despite all that it still manages to seem smaller and more managable than New York or even Boston. It's wierd, but true.  
I apologize for the short length of the chapter- New Year's kept me occupied, which brings me to the next thing. I hope next year is better than this one. Certainly, it's not hard to believe that we can do better than this year: the genocide in Darfur, the ongoing war in Iraq which I believe should not have happened in the first place, and countless other civil wars and conflicts still doing ill to people worldwide. The clinchers are, of course, the election I'm still pissed about here Stateside and the horrors wrought by a tsunami and earthquake that originated just west of Sumatra. By this morning's count 100,000 lives were ended and 300,000 souls were seriously injured. It goes without saying that in the new year we can do a hell of a lot better. Hopefully God, the human spirit, and hard work will bless the world with an easier and happier existence than we had before.

**Part Seven: The Big Three**

Warren Granger pulled up at his house in Dover just as exhausted as his daughter and wife. They had just gotten off the train from London, where they'd landed after the eleven hour flight from Hong Kong. It didn't help him to think of the purchases they'd made there; his credit rating was already bad enough. Not only that, but his daughter's education and those things that went with it were hardly cheap.

It was unfortunate, then, that he was instantly reminded of his daughter's schooling by the appearance of two of her friends and the cheap looking car they had apparently arrived in.

"Harry! Ron!" shouted Hermione. The two tall boys grinned as she hugged the both of them in turn.

"Hi, 'Mione," said Harry brightly. "How was China?"

"Oh, it's incredible. But what are you doing here?" asked Hermione without much surprise.

"Doing anything the rest of the summer?" countered Ron.

"No, not really," said Edith Granger with a smile. "But Warren and I both hoped that we would see a little more of Hermione."

"Perhaps you would like to stay the night?" wondered Mr. Granger hopefully. It'd been too long since they'd had at least a month with Hermione.

"We'd love to sir, but Professor Dumbledore has Harry under tight security," said Remus Lupin, who had accompanied them and until that point had been sitting on the Grangers' porch. "I'm Remus Lupin- I taught Hermione for a year."

"Yes, we remember Hermione's letters about you. She says you were quite the teacher," said Mrs. Granger. Hermione rolled her eyes as the adults negotiated terms.

"I hate it when they do this. Are you at the Burrow or Headquarters?" she asked.

"No, we're actually at Hogwarts," said Ron. "The Order moved out of Headquarters."

"_Hogwarts_?"

"Yeah, Professor Dumbledore is helping us with our homework," said Harry, grinning. "All the Order is there, too."

"Unfair!" Hermione rapped him on the arm lightly. "Is everyone from the Order there too?"

"Yeah, and my whole family," said Ron gloomily. "Even Percy." Hermione didn't say anything about that, but she was impressed nonetheless.

"Dear, do you have everything together?" asked Mrs. Granger.

"Yes, mother," said Hermione.

"I suppose we will see you at the end of your term then," said Mr. Granger sadly. Hermione embraced the both of them and gathered her things.

"We'll send the rest of your things along," added Mrs. Granger. "Write us, dear."

Harry, Ron, and Lupin each grabbed a bag and put them in the trunk of Lupin's Ford Escort. Harry got to shotgun first, so Hermione and Ron took the backseat.

"It's good to see you again, Hermione," remarked Lupin as they pulled away.

"Speaking of seeing, maybe you'd've liked to have seen the inside of your house before we left," cracked Ron. Nobody laughed.

Ron didn't say anything for awhile after that.

"How're things with the Order, Professor?" asked Hermione.

"Please, just call me Remus. The Order is doing as well as it can be expected to be, I suppose. But you heard about the Azkaban breakout, didn't you?" Lupin replied.

"Yes. There wasn't much the Order or Ministry could have done about that, is there?" wondered Hermione.

"No, not really, with the dementors on the other side. I still wish there had been enough people to stop it, though." Lupin shivered visibly. "Enough of dark things, though. It's still July and it's a month until school. Any plans?"

"Well, I just got back to the Continent Pro- I mean, Remus," said Hermione. "Unless you two have any ideas?"

"Yeah, I get to study all cozy-like with Snape," muttered Harry. "In order to get into his NEWT class."

Hermione was nonplussed.

"Well, it's lucky you convinced him to let you do catch up. I mean, you can't apply for being and auror without getting O's on those NEWTs, can you?"

"No," replied Harry, annoyed. Hermione wasn't exactly the one to bitch to about the faculty.

"Who have they got for the defense against the dark arts post?" asked Hermione. "I haven't gotten my letter yet."

"Abd al Rahman," said Lupin. "He's a Syrian wizard. A descendant of the Prophet, as the legend goes."

"Wow," said Hermione. Ron was lost.

"The _who?_"

"The Prophet, Ron! Muhammad!"

"Who?"

"He founded Islam, Ron," said Harry, exasperated.

"Iz.. what?"

"It's a major religion, Ron," said Lupin, who was grinning. "It's predominant in the Middle East, Indian Subcontinent, North Africa, and Southeast Asia."

"Oh," said Ron faintly. Hermione rolled her eyes and continued the interrogation.

"So is Professor al Rahman a member of the Order?"

"Yes, he is actually. He's been very useful, acting as a liaison to Arab wizards. You-Know-Who's been trying to recruit as much as he can there, but he hasn't gotten personal. He's more than a little bigoted," Lupin observed bitterly.

"I couldn't have guessed," said Harry sardonically.

"Anyway, he'll be focusing on defensive spells this year," Lupin concluded. "So you were in China, Hermione?"

"Just Hong Kong, Macau, and Taiwan," said Hermione. "We didn't want to try and go to the mainland."

"What's Hong Kong like?" asked Harry.

"It's fascinating. It's skyscrapers just crammed together- and all of it is built on hills that wouldn't get built on if it were anywhere else. And there's a huge wave of construction going on because of the handover,"

"Handover?" asked Ron. He was woefully ignorant of muggle politics.

"We're giving Hong Kong back to the Chinese next year, Ron," said Hermione.

"Oh… it's major, then?"

"No, Ron, nobody cares. It's just that most of the money in Asia passes through there at some point," said Hermione.

"Aw, come on, you aren't this mean to Harry when he asks about being a wizard," protested Ron.

"You should know about this, wizard or not, Ron," said Lupin, who had been listening bemusedly the whole time. "Though it was rather mean hearted to jump on him like that. Though, perhaps it's not spite," the werewolf shot Harry a meaningful look. Harry gave a very obvious nod.

"What's all that about?" demanded Ron suspiciously.

"Oh, nothing," Harry lied.

-

The four of them went to the main pub for wizards in Dover, the Hag's Oven. From there they took floo powder to the Three Broomsticks and had quite a time hauling Hermione's baggage up to the castle.

"What have you got in here, bricks?" panted Ron, heaving the bag he was carrying over Gryffindor Tower's portrait hole.

"All that quidditch training you talk about, and you can't haul a duffel bag half a mile," said Hermione waspishly. Harry sighed audibly and dropped the two bags he was carrying at the foot of the stairs to the girls' dormitory.

"Good to be back together again, isn't it?"


	8. Cockles of the Heart

The Quetzal's Fire

Harry Potter

**I'm trying to start a Harry Potter fanfiction message board. Email me or go to my homepage link**** and sign up for my totally subjective admittance process. As always: idiots need not apply. Fools, of course, are more than welcome.**

**A/N: **So, this is the new year- and I don't feel any different. Regardless… school will start nine hours and thirteen minutes from this exact moment. That sucks. It was a good December except for the tsunami, but doubtless y'all have heard enough about it. And the Mariners signed Adrian Beltre and Richie Sexon in December! The former was one of my bigger Christmas presents. Yet, the one that I think I will want more is a decent amount of snow in the Cascades (and the whole rest of the West, for that matter). It's going to be shitty skiing this year. It sucks.  
Enjoy.

**Part Eight: Cockles of the Heart**

"Potter, if you are going to bother me with these pointless and imposed visits, please be punctual," growled Professor Severus Snape as Harry Potter entered his classroom being all of two minutes late.

"Yes, _sir_," said Harry through gritted teeth. It was going to be a joy, he was sure.

"Let me explain it is through no pleasure or desire of mine to instruct you any more than I would normally through the course of the term. Regardless, Professor Dumbledore has a higher opinion of you than I and requested I perform this favor for him. I wish to be totally clear that I will expect full cooperation from you and I will bar you from ever taking this or any other class from me again, whether it be on my own time or during the term. Do you understand, Potter, or do need I write it down in monosyllables?"

"I understand, sir," Harry said, using all his will to keep from insulting Snape in return.

"Well? Have you anything else to say before we continue your farce of an education?" sneered Snape.

"Yes, _sir_. I've gotten nothing but hostility from you since I got here because of what my _dad_ did more than twenty years ago at _school_. I think it's you that's got problems  
with your intellect, not being able to let petty things like that go." Harry fixed Snape with a deep glare.

"Your opinion of me is irrelevant, Potter. I am the teacher and you are the pupil, and I expect that will not ever change, no matter the age you ascend to."

_Really,_ thought Harry. _You're a cocky bastard, you stupid git... we'll see how it is when Voldemort's gone..._

"Today we will be covering the sleeping draught, at which you failed miserably last year. I will be covering those potions you attained a D score on. Certainly, that will occupy the next two weeks, assuming you do not fail again…"

-

"What a git," snarled Harry. He punched an easy chair, then sank into it with a heavy sigh.

"Hope you're not talking about me," said Ginny, who slid easily into a chair across from him.

"Snape," Harry managed to spit out. He didn't lose his composure— his hatred of Snape was more than enough to keep him from losing balance in front of his crush.

"Yeah, he's a git," agreed Ginny. "Hermione said you're taking extra classes with him."

"One of us going to be dead before we're finished," Harry said wryly. "He'll spike my pumpkin juice or something."

"Nah, he'd have done that a long time ago," observed Fred, who had just jumped the lastfive stairs from the boy's part of the tower.

"Besides, Harry, you're not even worth an expensive poison," George noted, doing the same.

"Because it wouldn't kill me?"

"No. You're just vermin," Fred said with an air of finality.

"Thanks," Harry noted dryly.

"It's good to see you having some melodrama though, Harry," announced Fred.

"We were worried about you," George added.

"That means a lot coming from you two," Ginny said.

"Yes, you would know about our great concern for the fellow man—" George said.

"—especially our intimates—" interjected Fred.

"—wouldn't you, Ginny?" concluded George. Ginny said nothing.

Harry noted it was something like a trial.

Fred pretended to think for a minute. "You know, George, it was like I was saying."

"What? That Ginny is a very concerned person?" exclaimed the other twin in mock surprise.

"Especially when it comes to Harry! Exactly that!" shouted Fred with a smirk.

"Well, dear brother, it seems we have inflicted duress of an emotional type. To our own sister, no less!" said George in mock chagrin.

"Right you are dear brother. It would be an appropriate time to address the quality control of the kitchens of this miserable establishment, lest we further confuse and disturb our young compatriots." observed Fred pompously, offering his arm to George.

"To the kitchens!"

In their wake, both Ginny and Harry had turned red.

An awkward silence ensued.

"Funny blokes," said Harry weakly, trying to maneuver away from troubled waters.

"Yeah," said Ginny, echoing Harry's tone. That told Harry Ginny was just as embarrassed as he was.

_Oh, God, _thought Harry. _Is she embarrassed to be associated with me? Does she like me? Dammit, I've gotta say _something_ without actually saying something. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck—_

"They're, er, right, though," Ginny said.

"What do you mean?" asked Harry rather too quickly. _Shit! That sounded defensive_. Ginny turned redder than she already was.

"I, uh, like you a lot, Harry,"

Well, that was relieving.

Except Harry was still on the spot.

"Uh, me too," he said. "I, ah, mean, I like you a lot, too. Except, uh, not to say that I don't like _me_ too. But, I, ah, don't like myself too _much_, if you know what I mean. That's kind of funny. Too much. I mean, uh, _can_ you like yourself too much?"

Ginny stood up. To Harry's unspeakable horror and inexplicable dread, she leaned over…


	9. So What

The Quetzal's Fire

Harry Potter

**I'm trying to start a Harry Potter fanfiction message board. Email me or go to **** and sign up for my totally subjective admittance process. As always: idiots need not apply. Fools, of course, are more than welcome.**

**A/N: **Well, I'd like to give a shout out to Shadow's Overcast, my new beta reader. We've started working on ironing out the plot- having someone in pre production is very, very nice. Hopefully we'll both be working on our own stories and swapping them for editing. Also, the quidditch talk is a manifestation of my borderline-obsessive following of baseball and the arguments I get into talking about it. Pitchers and catchers report in about two months…

**Part Nine: So What**

Harry returned the kiss.

And that was all, because neither of them was confident enough to say anything. Ginny went at an unnaturally fast pace to the girls' dormitories. He sat there, shellshocked. Then he realized what had happened. The single living person he had thought about the most for a month or more had just done exactly what he wanted.

A smile found its way across Harry's lips. Perhaps this year wasn't going to be so bad after all.

Only until after dinner did Harry realize that he'd have to tell everyone to get a stable relationship going. Ron probably wouldn't notice, but when he did eventually find out, he'd be outraged at Harry and Ginny for keeping it under wraps. Despite his bumbling demeanor, Ron was a very loyal and protective friend and brother. Harry could see when it might come to conflict. That's the problem with falling for your best friend's sister.

It was convenient, then, that the realization hit Harry while returning to Gryffindor Tower with Ron, Hermione, and Ginny. Ginny had been obviously silent throughout the whole evening, but she kept shooting glances at Harry.

Ron, of course, was oblivious to the tension. Hermione, however, had picked up on the weirdness and shot Harry a meaningful look while they were eating the roast beef. She had pulled Harry aside as they were leaving.

"Are you and Ginny together now?" Harry shrugged.

"I think so. She, ah, kissed me this afternoon,"

"That's great, Harry!" Hermione whispered. "You've got to tell Ron, though,"

"Yeah…" said Harry, his voice trailing off. The beginning was going to be the worst part.

It was with that conversation in mind that Harry stopped in front of his three companions just a few feet away from the door that had housed Fluffy, the bloodthirsty tricapitated dog.

"What's wrong?" asked Ron. "Stomachache or something?"

"Well, Ron," said Ginny, with a nervous look at Harry. He nodded, swallowing. "Harry and I are going out,"

Ron turned to his sister and looked at her for awhile. Then he started laughing.

"Ruddy brilliant!" He thought it was a joke.

"No, Ron, she's serious," Harry said. He went over to Ginny and put an arm over her shoulders.

As always, a rather awkward silence ensued as a thunderstruck Ron looked between Harry and Ginny. He looked at Hermione in desperation.

"Don't look at me, Ron," said Hermione, obviously enjoying the whole business.

"I, uh, think it's brilliant," Ron finally said, with a rather forced grin.

All was as well as it could have been.

The next morning, Harry stumbled downstairs and saw his girl sitting on one of the couches in the common room.

"Hi, Harry," she said. Harry grunted and sat down next to her. He stared at the floor and blinked, then turned his head towards Ginny.

"Eaten yet?" he inquired.

"No. I just woke up," Ginny said sheepishly. Harry smiled. They got up and went for the Great Hall, hand in hand.

"Harry, I think we ought to keep it kind of low key until people get used to the idea of us being together," Ginny said.

"I don't know," Harry said mischievously. "Are you sure you can contain your all consuming passion for me?"

Ginny snorted. "If anything, I'll have to contain your growing ego,"

"Really? Well, we'll see about that." Harry reeled her in and they shared a long kiss.

Alas…

"Eugh," Ginny said, her face wrinkling with revolt. "Morning taste, Harry,"

"Yeah…"

Ginny lost a battle with laughter and gave Harry a peck on the cheek.

"It's the thought that counts, anyway," she noted as they entered the Hall.

"So it has been said, Ms. Weasley!" exclaimed an energetic Professor Dumbledore from the head table. Harry realized he hadn't seen him since his conference. "I suppose the two of you deserve some congratulations?"

"I, er, don't think so, sir," said Harry nervously.

"Nonsense! Please, don't begrudge me what little pleasant excitement we can produce at the moment," Dumbledore said without an ounce of apparent depression.

"My dear Professor, certainly such ill omens are not a fortuitous manner in which to begin the day," said Abd al Rahman, entering through the Great Hall doors with Remus Lupin. "Remus is responsible for that,"

"Why, thank you, Abd," replied Lupin. "Congratulations, you two, though I foresee a large anvil will fall upon one of you." The werewolf winked and sat across from Harry.

"So, what quidditch news, Professor?" asked Abd, nodding towards Dumbledore's pile of newspapers.

"Nothing on the transfer market, I'm afraid, just another Wimbourne victory. They are quite a team, aren't they?" said the headmaster.

"Yes, indeed. Yadovich, Johansen and Rodriguez is the best chaser tandem since the Smoking Barrels on the 1890s Cannons," Abd said in agreement.

"I still don't like them to win the cup. They can't seek or defend," Lupin said dismissively.

"Vladimir Ivanovich has the most KO's out of any beater in the league," Abd countered.

"Those KO's are the only time he actually hits the other team. His bludgeoning percentage is awful," Lupin said. "Consistency is worth more than flash during league play."

"The chasers are enough to carry them, I think. They're usually at 290 within five minutes," said Harry. "They can just outscore the opponent and give their seeker days if they have to,"

"A fair point, Harry. Certainly that is why they have yet to lose a match so far," Dumbledore said. "We must remember that Viktor Krum intends to join a Premiership team next month when his Bulgarian League contract expires— and his favorite team here has always been the Wasps."

"I still think he'll have the heart to sign the poor old Cannons. We've waited long enough for a cup," Ginny said wistfully. The Chudley Cannons had been without a title since 1918. "What's it like, having your team win?"

Harry realized that Ginny wasn't joking— the Cannons fan has a natural inferiority complex in regard to their beloved team. Not only that, but he was relieved that he didn't have to worry about getting passionate about quidditch. Ginny loved the sport as much as he did. Not only that, but she'd probably be one of his wing chasers when the season started.

"Kind of like last year, I'd think," Harry said.

"That's one thing. It's different as a fan," Ginny shot back.

"It's better as a player," said Abd fondly. "I chased for Gryffindor. _That_ was a good time, especially since we didn't have to do anything."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, totally confused.

"James usually got the snitch within ten minutes. That was good, because our defense was as bad as the Wasps'," al Rahman laughed. "I'll be interested to watch you play, Harry."

"You won't be disappointed," Remus said.

Disappointment was absent from Harry's life for some time, except for his daily visits with Snape. Snape seemed to have realized that Harry was going to get into NEWT potions whether he earned it or not and laid off the insults. He even helped every once in awhile:

"Potter. Remember to add wormwood next. I need to attend to more important business. I shall be here in case you find yourself more lost and pathetic than usual."

Such as it was.

Harry and Ginny went to Hogsmeade with great regularity, hitting up the Three Broomsticks for butterbeer. No type of encouragement would convince either of them to go anywhere near Madam Pudifoot's Teashop.

The village was actually quaint and relaxing without the constant influx of students from the school, except for the blast-ridden walls of Zonko's. They were still recovering from Fred and George's dirty dealings. Harry and Ginny were walking past the storefront when Ginny stopped.

"I didn't think they'd go to that extreme," she said, shaking her head.

"I don't know. The way they describe Zonko himself, he'd probably just do the same," Harry said. Ginny shrugged.

"I guess they get some credit for putting us together, though," she said. Harry realized how over the top that would have sounded if it weren't for the fact he was the one being addressed. He reeled Ginny in and they kissed for awhile. Passersby stared.

"Ah, PDA's are so great," Harry said with a grin.

"I thought you were trying to attract less attention?" Ginny asked deviously.

"Oh, shove it," Harry said, cuffing her gently on the back of her head.


	10. Your Generation

The Quetzal's Fire

Harry Potter

**I'm trying to start a Harry Potter fanfiction message board. Email me or go to ****and sign up for my totally subjective admittance process. As always: idiots need not apply. Fools, of course, are more than welcome.**

**A/N: **Part Ten already! I've never gotten this many chapters in so fast, if I've ever even gotten to ten. I apologize for the length of time between this and chapter nine, though. Midterms and skiing near collided over the past couple of weeks (with mixed results), so I've been playing a lot of catch up scholastically and socially.  
Thanks for the thoughts on the quidditch talk and fluff; both were intentional, and I thought that they might show up as sticky subjects. They will probably show up again in the future, though.  
Finally, my iambic pentameter sucks. I'm sorry. But do pay attention to the couplets.

**Part Ten: Your Generation**

The summer died without any further event. Harry did, however, read up on some quidditch books. True to his word, Professor Dumbledore helped Harry with all of his homework. Not only that but, Snape grudgingly admitted that he would tolerate Harry in his NEWT class. Combined with a full two months of his best friends and a new girlfriend, Harry could safely call it the most enjoyable summerof his life.

Yet there was something that didn't seem kosher— the fact that the Dark Lord had not struck after his initial attack on muggles. The Order was stumped, as well, because Snape was not involved in planning future strikes. He was instead the head of Voldemort's espionage arm, a positionwhich he would have to vacate soon. Dumbledore knew that with just one or two morefalse leads, Snape would be finished. Harry had learned about it during his ever more frequent visits with Dumbledore.

Those visits were probably the most startling developments of the summer. Classes with Snape, girls, and mortal peril were nothing new to the Boy Who Lived. Having a grandfather figure wasn't. Yet that was exactly what Dumbledore had become to Harry, and it was something the old wizard was totally unapologetic about.

"Harry, I told you last year that I could not risk Voldemort knowing of a very close relationship between us. I feel that now he has discovered how close we are, or, at the very least, my very high regard for you. I hope that you would have me as a member of your family, as Sirius was."

Harry had been struck dumb at the suggestion. It had come in the middle of a discussion of the marsh plants of Finland. Even more to his surprise, Dumbledore's eyes had grown wet.

"Of course, Professor," Harry said.

Dumbledore's "golden boy" indeed.

The headmaster went on and said that no indication of such a relationship could be shown to the school. Questions of favoritism were already common enough, and he didn't need to be seen meeting with Harry every other day to perpetuate them.

Hagrid returned a day before Harry and Dumbledore had their landmark chat. He had been negotiating with giants in the Himalayas and gotten neutrality, and a tenuous treaty of noninvolvement at that.

"Still, s'better tha' havin' 'em on th' other side, eh?" Hagrid had said in his cottage. "I'd sure like to 'ave 'em on our side, tha's for sure. Still, we'll come through if yeh three kip gettin' along like yeh are." Hagrid grinned toothily, which wasn't the prettiest of sights. As Hermione embarked on her habitual nagging on dental care, Hagrid used his traditional dismissal. Harry, however, felt a lump in his stomach that usually only showed up when he had to deal with a large portion of Snape. Ever since arriving at Hogwarts, his visions and nightmares of Voldemort had been minimal. Truth be told, Harry barely even thought about his fate or his mismatched nemesis save when talking with Dumbledore about such things.

Despite such momentous events, hell on wheels did arrive within a few short weeks just as the Union Pacific cavalcade advanced upon innocent and mortified frontier townsabout one hundred years before.

The Hogwarts Express arrived promptly at seven o'clock on the 16th of September, 1996.

Needless to say, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny went down to greet it with Hagrid.

The sky was unnaturally dark and chilly September night. A half moon sent its reflection over the lake, on which the five of them traveled to the dock a few minutes away from Hogsmeade Station.

"I'm glad that school will be starting," Hermione said for the umpteenth time.

"Yeah, I bet you'll be really glad to see Ferret Boy, too," Ron countered, again for the umpteenth time.

"You've been saying that all day, Ron," Hermione said, as though in anguish.

"_You've_ been saying _that_ all day!" Ron blustered.

"Oh, shove it," Harry said (again). The two of them were always the worst just after the holidays.

"'arry's righ', yeh don't do nothin' but argyeh. 'S 'nuff t' drive yeh crazy," Hagrid said grumpily.

"More than a little tension there," Ginny whispered to Harry. He sniggered and held her closer.

The five envoys got to the station at 6:50. Ron was out for blood, as his right foot was sopping wet after missing the dock on his first attempt to get out of the boat. He wore an ugly expression as they walked to the platform.

"'s late," remarked Hagrid as the train pulled up. "'s ten secon's pas' seven." He cracked a grin, which was quickly lost in a billow of steam as the engine lurched to a halt. "Firs' years, firs' years! Over 'ere!" he called.

"Oy! Prefects!" shouted Ron, still seething. "Over here!"

The prefects, Harry, and Ginny began herding returning students towards the carriages.

"See yeh at th' cas'le, 'arry," Hagrid bellowed. "This way, firs' years!"

"'arry!" exclaimed an all too familiar voice. "Goodness! If it isn't 'arry 'otter 'im'elf!"

"Damn, if only _my _ferret knew how to talk," Harry remarked to the wind. "Malfoy, your jabs are as inspired as ever," Harry noted sarcastically.

"Ah, Potter, if only for your benefit. My suspicions are such that we'll see each other againsoon… hopefully you won't have any desire to prolong it," Draco Malfoy staged a very theatrical and patronizing bow and stepped back. He showed no response, only a narrowing of the eyes.

Harry watched him as he went away. Ginny nudged him and they made their way to where Ron and Hermione were waiting with a carriage.

The four of them trooped back into the Great Hall with mixed anticipation and wistfulness. It would be their last real freedom until the Christmas holidays. The house tables (which the four helped move and set) were in their usual locations; students were beginning to sit on the pertaining benches. Floating candles filled the whole length and breadth of the Hall,seeming as numerous as the infinity of space plastered across the ceiling. All the students took a visual sweep of the room and upon satisfying themselves that nothing had been changed, sat down. Housemates chatted (mostly) politely about their holidays. The ghosts swept in. The Ravenclaw prefects, as victors of the previous year's House Cup, were unfurling banners commemorating their house. Hagrid placed the Sorting Hat and its stool just in front of the head table. Finally, Professor McGonagall entered with the first years and the Hall fell silent.

_"Three thousand years ago was I made and sewn,_

_to bestow upon thee what wisdom I could;_

_For though the Founders Four did pass,_

_I their legacy was to keep._

_Yet this knowledge is gone astray,_

_for still all houses their fellows betray._

_My chant is short but still take heed:_

_shall not the school outlast a hateful deed._

_Sort thee, do I, against mine will_

_for it by Dark will be used to kill._

_Take heed, good friend,_

_For lest ye shun quarrel trivial_

_The fate of Hogwarts shall be ill._"

Nobody was sure how to respond until Professor Dumbledore rose and began clapping emphatically. The faculty did the same with equal gusto and the Sorting Ceremony began.

"Andrews, Nathan!" called Professor McGonagall.

Dumbledore saved his annual start-of-term remarks for after the feast, which Harry and Ron passed by debating quidditch passionately with Seamus. Some stains wound up on Neville's shirt as Ron slammed his fist on the table so hard as to knock over his goblet. Hermione was in the process of scoldingRon angrily when the Headmaster stood up.

"Good evening, and welcome back to Hogwarts!"

Dumbledore beamed as he surveyed the Hall.

"First,please welcome to the Defense Against the Dark Arts professorship my good friend Sheik Abd al Rahman." al Rahman stood briefly to less than tumultuous applause, despite Harry's best efforts.

"Mr. Filch would like me to remind you all that public displays of affection are now banned in the corridors." Dumbledore glanced at Harry, who smirked and exchanged a glance with Ginny. "He would like to add that everyone should refresh themselves on the list of banned objects, which has been expanded and posted on each common room bulletin board.

"The Heads of Houses wish me to announce the new quidditch captains! Congratulations to Harry Potter of Gryffindor—" the Gryffindors leapt to their feet and started shouting uproariously— "Draco Malfoy of Slytherin, and Cho Chang of Ravenclaw." Dumbledore let the cheering go on for a few minutes before launching firecrackers. "Tryouts for house teams will be posted on bulletin boards.  
"Finally, I must turn to graver matters. As we all know, the Dark Lord returned to the fray just a few months ago. It was only due to a few Hogwarts students that his menace was reported to the outside world. Doubtless everyone present knows their names, so I shall spare them from any additional scrutiny.  
"The Sorting Hat was quite right to mention the discord between the houses of Hogwarts: the Chamber of Secrets and its victims are a direct result of enmity within these very walls. I do not feel anyone will perish from disunity here, but I beseech _all_ of you to try and set aside your differences and join to make us secure to the dark forces massing around us. Lord Voldemort—" the whole Hall gasped, and Dumbledore raised his hand. "—Lord Voldemort will not take mercy upon this school because of your innocence; indeed, that is why our institution is such a prominent target.  
"The fact he aims to commit genocide and eliminate all those people who are or who are related to those who do not wield magic should awaken you to the very real danger you face.Do notignore your peril.Do not joke about it more than you must. My generation, your parents' generation-we made those mistakes. It may be that I have forgotten youth and what it entails, but I know very much that the whole of you have the courage to face the danger head on.  
"And, of course, to those of you new to Hogwarts, welcome."


	11. Who's Your Daddy?

The Quetzal's Fire

Harry Potter

**I'm trying to start a Harry Potter fanfiction message board. Email me or go to my homepage link**** and sign up for my totally subjective admittance process. As always: idiots need not apply. Fools, of course, are more than welcome.**

**A/N: **I am in the midst of a transitional phase of the plot. The length is limited, I know, but that is typical of me on writing fanfiction. My goal with these short chapters is to make it entertaining and enriching; character development, relationships- they're just as important to me in this case as the big picture. I apologize if it is boring, but my aims with this story (I believe) are very clear.

**Part Eleven: Who's Your Daddy?**

The atmosphere the next morning was electric. Dumbledore's speech was, obviously, not a calming one. Questions abounded: what was Voldemort's next goal? Who was a target? What were his methods? Nobody would have dreamed of asking the inaccessible Headmaster or a member of the faculty such things. So, naturally, those who were once in the DA were singled out for questioning. Harry had hardly made it to the common room before he was surrounded by babbling Gryffindors.

"Oy! OY!" Ron shouted, coming down behind Harry. "Clear out! What's the problem? I'm a prefect, you know! Detention if you don't let us through!"

Ron's threats, though well intentioned, had no effect. Hermione took drastic measures.

"_Silence_!" she roared over the exploding sparks she had launched from her wand. "Everyone to the Great Hall, _now_!"

The three of them started laughing after the last first year had disappeared.  
-  
Upon arriving in the Great Hall, Harry felt a sharp tug on his shoulder.

"Ow!"

"That couldn't have hurt, Potter," snapped Professor McGonagall. "I want to have a word with you."

"I didn't notice," muttered Harry, rubbing his shoulder.

"I'd give you detention for that, Potter, if it weren't for the fact that you need to set up quidditch practices. Let it suffice for to say I doubt Professor Snape will have such reservations. Do you understand the general picture, Potter?"

Harry nodded, anger forgotten (or at least redirected).

"Good. Distribute these schedules."

McGonagall returned to the faculty table.

Harry passed out the schedules to the other Gryffindor sixth years and took a seat next to Ginny.

"What've you got?" she asked, turning the schedule towards her. "Pretty good day,"

"Yeah," Harry replied, looking at the parchment for the first time. "Defense, transfiguration, charms."

Ron plunked himself across from Harry. "Excellent! We've got defense first."

"Damn it, we won't be able to sleep!" moaned Seamus Finnigan. "Defense is my favorite,"

"You always slept in defense last year, mate," Dean Thomas pointed out.

"Yeah, wonder why that is?"

"Bloody hell!" shouted Ron. A few first years jumped. He scowled at them and turned back to the sixth years. "We've got that and transfiguration with the Slytherins."

"Damn it," said Harry, slamming his fist onto the table.

"Welcome back," said Hermione sagely.

After positively shoving Ron from his place (he was on his third plate of sausage), Harry, Ron, and Hermione made their way to the defense against the dark arts classroom with high expectations. Professor al Rahman had made a good impression on them.

The classroom was almost full and the Gryffindors were abuzz with anticipation. The majority of the Slytherins aimed to look as malcontent as possible. Certainly if Gryffindors liked the teacher, then he had to be a bad one. Harry, Ron, and Hermione took seats near Dean, Seamus, and Neville, as always seemed to happen. Malfoy said nothing upon entering. Nor did he glance at Harry. Not that Harry minded; it was too early in the year and the day to have to have to worry about verbal sparring. Harry and Dean chatted amiably and insubstantially about the holidays until al Rahman entered.

"Ah, good morning!" said al Rahman, positively beaming. He continued in his clipped accent. "That is, for me it is. I hope that you all are properly indisposed towards starting." The rookie teacher surveyed the room. "Judging by Mr. Finnigain's reaction, I appear to be correct."

Most of the class laughed, barring the most hardcore of Slytherins. Indeed, Seamus's reservations appeared to have vanished. He was slumped forward onto his desk.

"So. I will be going over course aims and goals for the year today. I am very sorry. Also, it has been quite a long time since I have spoken exclusively English. I do not doubt that I will improve as the year wears on, but until then. Yes, mister… Malfoy, is it?" al Rahman checked his class list.

"Yes. I guess you can read, then?" drawled Malfoy nonchalantly.

al Rahman's smile slowly disappeared, but he said nothing.

"Do you have a proper question, Mr. Malfoy, or are you here to promote some sort of agenda?"

"You could say that," Malfoy said with a smirk.

al Rahman regarded him coolly. "Your strategy is lacking, Mr. Malfoy, if that is the case."

Malfoy kept smirking nonetheless. "Yeah, I guess you'd know a whole lot about strategy, since the Orient has such advanced and sophisticated politics." The lordling snorted. al Rahman's neck went tauter than Harry had ever seen anyone's go before.

"Seventy points from Slytherin, Draco Malfoy. Do not speak ill of my bloodlines again." Malfoy said nothing, but kept up his façade of nonchalance. al Rahman glared at Malfoy, but continued in a measured tone.

"I had hoped that such idiocy would not find its way into the classroom. Certainly this institution is exalted enough that I would not have suspected it. I thought that the British Isles had changed since I lived here first, but it would not seem as such. Perhaps it was naïve of me to think that things had." al Rahman, in expert motion, produced his wand and directed it at Malfoy. Abd shouted an incomprehensible incantation and Malfoy found himself reprising his award winning role as a ferret. "You will find, _Mr._Malfoy, that Professor McGonagall probably would not have any objections to this form of punishment on this particular occasion. Please do tell your dear father that Abd al Rahman does not tolerate the insults of the degenerate son of a degenerate line attempting to reclaim the glories of their morally bankrupt zenith. Your family's opportunism is breathtaking, Malfoy. Your lack of loyalty is disturbing, just as is your lack of creative thought. Perhaps through a year of my tutelage you can learn to develop an independent mindset." With that, Abd hurled Malfoy the ferret through the open window.

As his class sat stunned in their desks, the would-be Caliph returned to his podium and reassumed his academic guise with a smile.

"Now, course aims."


	12. Negocio

The Quetzal's Fire

Harry Potter

**Part Twelve: Negocio**

The fanfare present at the opening of a term at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was absent at the occasion in question; it is irrefutable, however, that the latter had a greater deal of importance was occurring in a darkened room in Cuzco.

A transaction borne of manipulation and arrogance was at hand, one with effects so potentially catastrophic and calamitous as to blow the mind beyond the scope of any dose of hallucinogens. Not that anyone concerned nor knew such things. The occasion at hand would not have even been considered should all the facts about it have been known by those engaging in it.

Such things are easy to see through a rearview, but the wizard once known as Tom Marvollo Riddle could not have known.

"Don Voldemort." A fairly short man in a crisp grey suit extended his hand to Voldemort, who spurned it.

"Mr. Pachacuti," the Dark Lord said, brutally mangling the other man's name.

"Let us not delay this any further. You have the… ah, yes." A dementor glided forward. "The creature will be of great use to us."

"And your end of the bargain..." the Dark Lord said, eager and impatient.

"Yes, yes, we are coming to it. I wish to… como se dice? Ay, reiterate that I have said the whole time that we only provide information. The location of what you are after is enclosed." The tanned man withdrew a completely nondescript manila envelope from his suit pocket and handed it to Lord Voldemort. "El incendio inolvidable."

Thousands of miles away, Harry Potter started sliding down the stairs of Gryffindor Tower as he saw it all.


	13. Born on a Broomstick

The Quetzal's Fire

Harry Potter

**I'm trying to start a Harry Potter fanfiction message board. Email me or go to my homepage link**** and sign up for my totally subjective admittance process. As always: idiots need not apply. Fools, of course, are more than welcome.**

**A/N:** First off, sorry for the delay. I've had crazy school shit, I'm having trouble getting in touch with shadow (you miserable SOB ;)) and, so, yeah. I'll be in Montana this week (OUTSIDE of Bozeman... the definition of "middle of nowhere") vacationing, so I'll be away from Internet access until this coming Saturday. Hopefully I'll have some new material by then, but I've got exams two weeks after my return... long story short, it's going to be tough to write anything. So bear with me. Lots of good stuff will come in about three weeks, and this is a pretty fat chapter.  
Also, my Spanish sucks, and Incan-inspired cultists probably have an indigenous language… but suspend your disbelief. Creative liscence and all that.  
**DISCLAIMER ON PART 12:** Part Twelve was concise because it's important. No shit will be purveyed here. I'm into the whole brevity thing, except in author's notes… as you well know.  
AND SPRING TRAINING HAS STARTED! W00T! GO M'S!

**Part Thirteen: Born on a Broomstick**

Ron, standing behind Harry, bore the brunt of his weight, which was sliding down the smooth stone stairs.

"Bloody hell!" Ron rasped, bending over. There would be a mark come morning. "What in Merlin's name happened?"

Harry, having fallen harder and for a longer distance, was still spread-eagled and wheezing on the floor.

Hermione, who had been sitting in their customary corner of the Common Room, ran over as fast she could. Nobody else was up by this point.

"I got a vision," Harry said.

"You should see Dumbledore," Hermione said, as worried as she always was. "Are you alright?" she said to the both of them.

"Yeah, fine. Just bruises," Harry said dismissively, standing up. Ron nodded assent, hoisting himself up to sit on the bottom step.

"Harry, maybe you should wait till morning. You're hurt…"

"Hermione, I just fell," Harry said exasperatedly. "I'm seeing him."

Harry pushed the Fat Lady aside dramatically.

"Harry, shouldn't you take your invisibility cloak?" Hermione asked.

He sighed and went back up the stairs.

With his invisibility cloak now draped across his shoulders, Harry hurried to the statue of the gargoyle that served as the entrance to Dumbledore's office.

"Tootsie roll," he whispered. The gargoyle stood aside slowly, as though being roused from a deep sleep. "Come on," Harry urged it, angry and anxious.

Harry got on the escalatoresque stairs and rubbed his eyes. He felt awful.

To his amazement, Dumbledore was at his desk, pouring over tattered parchment with a magnifying glass. He was so engrossed that Harry stood at the door for several minutes.

"Uh, Professor…" Dumbledore nearly jumped out of his seat.

"Oh, Harry," Dumbledore said, relieved. "Is there something wrong?"

"I had another vision, sir." Dumbledore's eyes narrowed.

"Sit down, Harry. What did you see?"

"Voldemort."

"Yes, yes, of course. What was he doing?" Dumbledore said patiently.

"He was trading for something—I don't know what, though. He gave up a dementor for it—he seemed excited—" Harry looked nervously at Dumbledore.

"You won't mind if I try and see the memory, will you?" Dumbledore asked. A sense of urgency seemed to penetrate his voice.

"No, not at all," Harry said.

Dumbledore fixed Harry with the most penetrating of stares. "Interesting."

"Interesting? I don't understand, sir." Harry was utterly perplexed. Dumbledore hadn't even said the incantation.

"I do not need to recite an incantation to deploy my skills in Occulmency, Harry. I have a great many years of experience," Dumbledore said without the smile that always appeared when enlightening his students. "Did either of them mention what was being bought?"

"I didn't hear anything if they did, sir," Harry said.

Dumbledore said nothing for several minutes.

"Indeed. I do not believe that anything of consequence happened. Professor Snape has told me that Voldemort is beginning to send out feelers to other Dark wizards. I do not believe that this was any more than an embassy. Certainly I do not believe an artifact of great magnitude was purchased for a mere dementor. Thank you for coming here, Harry." Harry nodded and got up for the door. "Oh, Harry—I should like to see you in a week's time."

"Sure," said Harry.

And so, despite grave error on his part, Voldemort had the early lead.

Draco Malfoy's ejection via the window became the talk of the school and he was taking all the mockery and disdain he rightly deserved. Hogwarts's small but industrious Arab population was taking it upon themselves to give it to him. Ferrets started appearing in his dresser. Buckets of dye, which may or may not have been manipulated by Peeves, were disgorging their contents upon his head whenever he went down the hall, ruining his robes.

Abd al Rahman, meanwhile, was something of a hero amongst the non-Slytherin houses. By default, his classes were more dynamic than that of the ex-Professor Umbridge, but in their own right they were fascinating. He started with the historical context of each spell or technique he taught, reading the more dramatic passages of ancient tomes. Then the class would troop outside and start cursing the hell out of everybody. It was in one such melee, on the last Thursday of the month, that Harry was fighting his usual amusing battle against Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle. They were practicing a stunner, something that came easily to Harry but was of difficulty to the rest of the class bar those who had been members of the DA. Nor did most of the class know the shield charm: Abd had to run around reviving those who went down, which was rare, considering the power of the spells being launched. The ineptitude was obvious in Harry's typical enemies. Malfoy was good at flashy, embarrassing curses, but dueling did not come naturally to him.

Harry was having a friendly duel with Seamus until Malfoy snuck up behind the two of them and cried the incantation. Harry rolled instinctively and countered from his knees.

"_Expelliarmus_!" Malfoy was caught unprepared and found himself flying through the air, wandless: he hadn't expected such a quick reaction. "_Stupefy_!"

Malfoy was stunned on the ground as Crabbe and Goyle moved in on Harry.

Abd, who had just finished reviving Neville, watched interestedly. Crabbe and Goyle seemed lost.

"That it?" asked Harry, his breath slightly rushed. "I was trying to duel Seamus," he motioned towards Seamus, who was prone on the ground because of Malfoy's stunner.

Crabbe lifted his wand and mumbled the incantation.

"_Protego_!" the jinx reflected off the magical wall and hit Crabbe straight in the stomach. "_Stupefy_!" Goyle joined his cronies on the ground. Harry went over to Seamus. "_Revitus_,"

"That git!" Seamus ejaculated, blinking angrily.

"I got him back good," Harry said, offering Seamus a hand.

"Thanks." Harry pulled him to his feet.

Abd revived Malfoy and set him on his feet.

"Mr. Malfoy, note that if you must go after someone from the rear that you do not shout your incantation so loud. Mental accentuation is the key." Malfoy was still dazed from the stunner and simply nodded.

al Rahman went over to Malfoy's unconscious thugs and revived them too.

"All I have to say for the two of you is that your reaction time needs improvement." The Professor moved on to Harry. "Excellent, Mr. Potter. Excellent reactions. Your vocabulary of curses is less than adequate for someone of your ability and, ah, stature, however. You may find this of interest."

"_A Treatise on the Arts of Defense_ by Devin Buhner." Harry flipped through it.

"Indeed. It is the accepted standard for the field, Mr. Potter. It is required reading for those in the Auror Training Program." al Rahman winked and strolled impassively over to Lavender Brown, who was bleeding profusely from her shoulder.

That night, Harry was sharing a couch with Ginny in the Common Room, watching all comers try to wrestle with Dean Thomas. Harry's money was still on Dean, the decided favorite for Gryffindor's Monday night fight crown with Lee Jordan gone.

"You should probably say something about quidditch, Harry," Ginny said. "That had to have hurt," she said conversationally as Dean dropped Colin Creevy onto the floor.

"Yeah," Harry replied. He was too busy looking at Ginny to say anything of substance.

"What are you looking at?" she asked, shoving him lightly. Harry grinned.

"Thomas wins!" bellowed Mick Gibbard, seventh year, Lee Jordan's replacement as commentator, and Hogwarts's official bookie. "Put down your bets! Up next is… let's see… uh, Bell vs. Thomas… is that Katie Bell?"

"Oh yes," said Katie with a demonic grin, pulling off her sweatshirt.

Ginny nudged Harry.

"Oy! Mick! Can I say a bit?"

"What is it Potter?" Gibbard said, even more confused than he had been.

"Quidditch tryouts are Saturday, one o'clock, on the pitch! We need beaters and a chaser. Katie, I, uh, don't think you should wrestle."

Katie looked put out. "Oh, fine," she said dejectedly.

"Potter, I've got fifty galleons on this already," protested Gibbard.

"You make more on quidditch." Hermione interjected waspishly from the far corner of the room, where she was the only person studying. "And I still don't know this is going on. Set up a pool on who makes the team."

That decision—who would make the team—was to be made on Saturday. Friday would have passed largely without incident, were it not for a development of a less than comical nature to Harry. The class before lunch, charms, had just ended and he wasn't entirely hungry, which was an aberration, to say the least. As was customary, he headed towards McGonagall's classroom, where Ginny had class. A door located just up the hall from the classroom in question swung open, and Ginny appeared from it.

"Hi Harry," she whispered, looking in both directions.

"Hi, Ginny," Harry replied, puzzled, as she pulled the door shut. "What's—" Ginny pulled him close and they started making out with a vengeance.

It was only a few minutes later that the door opened and Hannah Abbot appeared on the other side of it.

Of all of Hogwarts's four hundred students, the gossip queen had to be the one to walk in.

"Oh, hello!" she said, her eyes positively lighting up.

Harry swore, turning his gaze towards the window. So much for a relaxing weekend.

Even by the end of classes on Friday Harry was getting chiding remarks from the rest of the student body. Hermione took the supportive role, of course, but Ron, on the other hand…

"_Bloody hell_! _Bloody hell_! What in Merlin's name were you _doing_? Snogging my _sister_, Harry!" Ron bellowed in the Common Room after fuming silently next to Harry in potions.

"See, Ron, that's wha—"

"_Not with Ginny, it's not_!" Harry wryly noted that Ron had been the biggest supporter of the embryonic idea of Ginny getting together with Harry. A strong sense of irony had started to flourish in him ever since Sirius's death.

"Ron, I'm sure that Ginny appreciates having a brother that cares so much, but she's fifteen."

"We—" Ron started.

"—Couldn't get dates last year. Well, not good ones," Harry countered with a grimace.

"Rubbish," Ron muttered. He sat down with an ugly expression on his face.

"This was one of your ideas, Ron," Harry said softly. Rarely was Harry irritated by Ron's loyalty to his intimates, but this was one of those times.

Ron snorted, then exhaled loudly.

"I reckon so," he said. Harry knew that was as good of an apology he'd get, so he let it lie.

Saturday dawned bright and early, an interesting development considering the chill that had descended on Hogwarts in September. Dew glimmered on the lawn as Harry, Ron, Katie Bell, Ginny, and the hopefuls strode to the field for Harry's first practice and speech as captain of Gryffindor quidditch. They assembled in the middle of the field.

"Morning, everybody," Harry said, surveying everyone and their varying degrees of exhaustion. "We've got three open positions—a wing chaser and beaters. You knew that, though." Harry grinned nervously. "The four of us—" Harry indicated himself and the other veterans "—will be looking for talent, cohesiveness, and intensity." Ron tried to look scary while Ginny rolled her eyes at her boyfriend's beautiful use of sports cliché that reigned even in the wizarding world. "So, ah, who's out for chaser?" A couple of second years Harry barely recognized and Colin Creevy raised their hands.

"I am, Harry! It'll be brilliant!" Colin exclaimed, flushed red.

"If you say so," Ginny muttered. Harry's mouth twitched—Colin had an obvious and brutally unreciprocated crush on her.

"We'll start with chaser drills. Mount up. Katie, you'll…?" Harry's voice trailed off. Katie nodded and Harry opened the box of balls, withdrawing the quaffle. He tossed it to her as she kicked off.

"Beaters… Damian Pratt, right?" Harry indicated a large, nervous fourth year. "Good show. You and Seamus." Seamus flashed his ivory nervously. "You blokes will be against each other for now. Tandems will come later. You two watch, alright?

"Chasers. We'll be running a simple shooting drill. Ginny will be on the right wing and Katie will be the center. Ron's going to be keeper. Emilia Santos?" one of Ginny's friends, a tall, lean, Latina fifth year, nodded. "You'll go first. Let's kick off."

Their exuberant broomsticks bounded into the air and Harry assumed a familiar position: hovering high above the goalposts. Seamus was decent and Pratt's play was poor. Harry figured that their team was an offensive one anyway, but he needed insurance with the experience of his seeker counterparts on other teams. Harry hoped that Charlie Weeks, another candidate for beater, could live up to his high recommendation from Professor McGonagall.

Emilia Santos, however, was a natural—she had actually been born on a broomstick going between Lima and Cuzco. Her passing was as smoother than Angelina Johnson's—which was incredible, because Harry had heard Madame Hooch swear that Angelina's arm had been the best at Hogwarts in twenty years. He was completely and utterly sure that Emilia would make the squad.

"Santos! Ginny! Flip!" he bellowed. Emilia took a swift dive under Katie, who released the ball as the wing flew under her. Emilia reacted instinctively—she put it under the crux of her arm and took a diagonal to the goalposts, artfully dodging a bludger courtesy of Seamus.

Ron had no chance: the angle was too sharp, his distance too far from the post, and the velocity of the quaffle was simply too great. The big red ball hurtled through the posts without even touching the rim. Katie shot Harry a meaningful look from below. He returned it and a thumb's up.

"Excellent work, Santos, excellent. In formation, Colin. Seamus, Pratt, swap out with Weeks and Stefan, there."

All of Harry's suspicions were confirmed with the next tandem. Colin was miserable, dropping all three passes he received from Ginny and Katie. Charlie Weeks was far above average, coolly whacking the possessed black spheres at Stefan Obermeuller and the chasers. Harry for a little while longer to look objective, then blew his whistle to stop the practice.

"Everybody looked strong. We'll go into the lockers and figure who's on the team. Just wait out here," Harry said. He and the veterans shuffled into the lockers and plunked themselves on the seats.

"Emilia, Seamus, and Charlie," Katie announced.

"Bloody right," Ron said enthusiastically.

"Emilia wasn't even playing her best," said Ginny bemusedly. They all looked at Harry expectantly.

"Just what I was thinking," he said. "None of them have conflicts?"

"You heard Seamus, mate. He cleared up just for quidditch," Ron noted approvingly.

"So did Emilia," Ginny said. "I don't know Charlie well, though."

"I don't either. I didn't even know he existed until McGonagall mentioned it," Katie said with chagrin.

"We have to stay in a few more minutes so we don't make Creevy cry," Harry pointed out. Ginny mockingly got to her feet. Harry smirked elegantly.

Katie drew a grid on the chalkboard. "Tic tac toe?"

After Ron won the only round that didn't wind up cat's game, the four of them trooped back onto the pitch. The tryouts crowded them hopefully. Several of them, including Colin, were quite pale.

"Well, it's been tough, but I've made the choices. I just want to say first that all of you are deserving of slots on a slightly less crowded team. All of you did well today. Our team will be the four of us, Seamus, Emilia, and Charlie. Thanks for giving up your sleep for the house." The lucky three stood up shakily, congratulating each other. Seamus made a fist and thrust it into the sky. Colin and company filed back to the castle, forlorn. "Congratulations," Harry said, beaming. He waited until the cut were out of earshot. "Honestly, you lot had it made when you said you were trying out for the team."

"We played tic tac toe for fifteen minutes," Ginny added.

"But you have to live up to it," Harry said, serious. "We're going to win it all. Not that anyone else has a chance. Practice is Monday at seven. We'll leave them in the muck this year."

Hogwarts returned to class Monday in generally good spirits, barring Colin Creevy, who had been shut down repeatedly by Ginny, and Draco Malfoy, who was still smarting over the Second Ferret Incident. But to those who had been present, it was getting to be boring to talk about the defenestration. Ron was even starting to get sick of it.

"Bloody hell, if I have to talk about that thing again, I'm going to hurt someone," he muttered menacingly after Luna Lovegood paid he, Hermione, and Harry a visit in the Entrance Hall.

"Malfoy, maybe?" Harry asked innocently.

"Put down your galleons," Ron noted, smirking.

"Gibbard has a pool going on who beats up Malfoy next," Hermione said evenly.

"Don't tell me you're going to shut it down!" Harry cried.

"Of course not. I put money on Ron." Hermione gazed approvingly at Ron.

Ron stopped, and Harry turned to face him.

"What was that about?" Ron asked, agog. Harry shook his head, the corners of his lips twitching.

Even as Ron displayed his total inability to grasp nuance, plotting and experimenting occurred just outside of the ancient capital of the Inca.

"Don Pacahuti," a security guard nodded. "Buenos dias,"

"Hola, Rogelio. ¿Juan est�?"

"Sí. Èl está en la tumba," replied the guard. "¿Usted no quiere decirme exactamente que están hacando?"

"Ay, Rogelo, cuando estás aprender?" Pacahuti guffawed. "Los gringos revelarán pronto bastante, cuando allí chico está… astestando con."


	14. Schemes

The Quetzal's Fire

Harry Potter

**I'm trying to start a Harry Potter fanfiction message board. Email me or go to my homepage link**** and sign up for my totally subjective admittance process. As always: idiots need not apply. Fools, of course, are more than welcome.**

**A/N: **Well, I got back from a vacation in the largely snowless land that is southwest Montana, i.e. the Big Sky resort. And you know what? The sky really is bigger there. It's good to be a Westerner, even if just in ancestry. I got this one done and some of what will be part-anywhere-from-16-to-21 done as well. **AND SIGN UP FOR THE CAVE!**

**Part Fourteen: Schemes  
**

As the sinister Peruvian magicians plotted in their ancient city, more mundane vendettas played themselves out at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Draco Malfoy was beginning to shape _his_ brilliant plans.

"What can we do to ruin the Gryffindor team?" he wondered aloud one night in the Slytherin Common Room. He was holding court over the rest of the assembled sixth years.

"Take their practices," suggested Pansy Parkinson.

"Too simple. Been done before."

"We, uh, could hit bludgers at them," proposed Vincent Crabbe.

"As always, Crabbe, your brilliance shines brighter than the North Star. No, we can do something better. I imagine even you lot have observed where broomsticks are kept? Before Potter's first match as captain…"

* * *

The entire Order of Phoenix convened for its weekly meeting on the third of October 1996 in the Headmaster's chambers. 

"Good afternoon everyone." Dumbledore looked around the room soberly. "I believe I have told you all fragmentally about the vision Harry Potter had last week." Snape pursed his lips. "But this is the first time everyone has been together for some time, so I decided to wait until now to enlighten the whole of you.

"Voldemort was making a purchase of some time from the leader of Latin Dark Magic, Don Pacahuti Mirabál. I'm sure most of you know something about him and the way he has managed to take over most of the magical community in southeastern Peru and a good portion of Chilé. He has never been very involved in European or North American power struggle. I do not believe that he is changing any of that now. Kingsley and Nymphadora have said as much." Fred and George snorted, but Kingsley ignored it and stood up.

"Albus said that Voldemort exchanged a dementor for el inciendo involvidable, the nature of which I am not sure…" Kingsley looked hopefully at Abd and Dumbledore.

"That translates to 'the unforgettable fire', of which I have never heard," Abd said with a shrug.

"I am unsure myself," Dumbledore admitted. "I shall research it, however. The degree of importance seems fairly low, however, if Voldemort exchanged a mere dementor for it." Dumbledore looked at his potions- and spy- master expectantly.

"I have not heard the Dark Lord mention it," Snape remarked. "I do not believe it should be a priority of this organization."

"It will be attended to in the coming months. But what I think is more important is the results of the Kilburn raid…"

* * *

Pacahuti Alejandro Mirabál was deep in his compound, plotting casually. Of course, he was not actually plotting at present; he was on his cigarette break. 

"See the match last night?" he inquired to his main subordinate, Rodrigo Santana. The two had forged an indelible bond after surviving a leftist, pro-muggle-unity insurgency in their remote hometown. Santana was intelligent, but admittedly uncreative beyond the details. Mirabál, on the other hand, had imagination for ten. The two worked together flawlessly: it was a relationship envied by Voldemort, who felt he had no reliable partisans—his main flaw. Mirabál knew most of his limitations, however, and leaned heavily on his people.

"Jimenez had the snitch right under his nose!" Santana cried angrily. "I suppose it is his muddy blood,"

Mirabál snorted. "Not that we'll have to worry about that much longer. Has the alchemical equipment come in?"

"Late, as usual. I think we may need to breed another specimen to proceed. If the formula is flawed…" Santana's voce trailed off. Mirabál nodded absently. He was accepting of criticism from all parties on his side, a rarity for Dark Lords.

"They do not mate, Rodrigo. How many times must I tell you?" Mirabál chided, not unkindly.

"Replicate one, then. We have transfigurators enough,"

"I suppose."

The two puffed in silence. Mirabál spoke next.

"Riddle will need you next month. I believe he is sending an emissary to assist us with the mutations. We have agreed to let your time and the envoy's overlap. The schedule must be met." Santana nodded.

"A patronus-proof dementor. Who would have thought?"

**SIGN UP FOR THE CAVE (see my homepage link)!  
**


	15. Puddlejumping

The Quetzal's Fire

Harry Potter

**I'm in looking for a beta again. ****As always: idiots need not apply. Fools, of course, are more than welcome. Also, there are a few stipulations I will need to disclose over email.  
**

**I'm trying to start a Harry Potter fanfiction message board. Email me or go to andesxyz. (there's no www.) and sign up for my totally subjective admittance process.**

**A/N: **Well, here's the chapter that should have been finished about two months ago. I promised myself that wouldn't happen, but… anyway. A gold star if you correctly identify the real Felix Hernandez. CD reccomendations: _Appalacia Waltz_, featuring Yo Yo Ma, _Sailing the Seas of Cheese_ by Primus, _Mercy Mercy_ by the Buddy Rich Big Band, and _Bitches Brew_ by Miles. Here's part 15, and it's pretty long, but it still has a cliffhanger. I should cut a little bit of the melodrama, I guess.

**Part Fifteen: Puddlejumping**

Severus Snape was infuriated. The last damn thing he'd intended to occur so near his renouncement of Lord Voldemort had just went ahead and happened.

"I'm going to bloody Peru, Headmaster," the potions master hissed. "Peru."

Albus Dumbledore surveyed his spymaster and friend with sympathy.

"To meet with Pacahuti Mirabál?"

Snape nodded, his jaws obviously clenched.

"Severus, you know that your safety cannot be ensured even within these walls if you do not carry out this mission." Snape drew a dramatic breath.

"Yes, Albus, you're damn right I do. That is why I'm so bloody angry about this."

Dumbledore said nothing, considering.

"My experience of you doesn't seem to see you in such a snit about all this, Severus."

_Never misses a trick_, Snape thought sardonically, the image of Rubeus Hagrid coming to him.

"Muggle transport, Professor. British Airways from…" Snape checked a piece of paper. "Heathrow."

"I suppose you will have to hurry, then, to meet it," Dumbledore said with a forced smile.

"Yes, professor, I suppose so." Snape bit the syllables from the air. He turned on his heel and slammed the door.

* * *

As Snape packed all of his hazardous duty gear, Harry was sitting in Abd al Rahman's class. They were going over famous duels, something that gave Harry unpleasant flashbacks to a certain amnesiac teacher. 

"So, Felix Hernandez found himself pinned down behind this boulder, here. He knew he was far overmatched. He had no way of retreat. Grindelwald is walking towards him. What must be done?" Harry shivered involuntarily. This specific occasion was also far too familiar territory—something very much like the end of the Triwizard Tournament. Dean raised his hand. "Yes. Mr. Thomas."

"Transfigure something into a copy of him?" He shrugged. That about summed up what everyone else could think of.

"An excellent guess, but transfiguring an inanimate object into even a lifeless clone would have left him exhausted and unable to capitalize on the distraction that would have been created. What's more, it would have been an incredible gamble for Felix to have risked his life on a facsimile. There were no guarantees that the copy would have been found first. Yes, Mr. Zabini."

"I would have launched something flashy to the opposite direction and run."

al Rahman grinned. "That is exactly what Felix did. As all of us have heard, discretion is by far the better part of valor." Abd looked concernedly at Harry, who was focused on the blackboard with a mangled expression. He faked dropping his chalk in order to walk to Harry's front desk. "Harry, can you continue?" the professor muttered as he bent over.

Harry frowned. "Yes, professor," he replied, equally quiet. al Rahman returned back to the board. "Perhaps you could offer me some coordination training, Mr. Malfoy. I do believe my heritage may have something to do with my ability to handle a piece of chalk.  
"So, Felix cast a sparkler, which appeared about fifty feet to the left of the rock, on the opposite side of the bluff. He sprinted down the hill, found a ditch, got in, and covered himself with leaves for the night. He escaped the Dark Lord of the day with mere bruises, and a rather deflated ego. Tomorrow, we will continue with Grindelwald, but Professor Dumbledore will be running the class and recounting his famous duel with that Dark Lord. I shall let you lot go five minutes early. Do enjoy your lunch." Various cries of jubilation resulted as everyone threw their books into bags and booked it out of the classroom.

Harry was about to leave with Ron and Hermione when Abd stopped them.

"I am very sorry to have to remind you of two years ago, Harry, but it is a very important tactical lesson."

"I understand, sir."

"Have a good week-end, all of you."

"Thank you, sir," Hermione said.

* * *

United Airlines Flight 0117 to John Fitzgerald Kennedy International Airport, New York, a Boeing 747-400D, was slowly rolling down the taxiway to the runway. It contained about two hundred fifty people, a very small number for a plane of its size and on such a route. One of its passengers was overcome by a sense of fatalism. Severus Snape, who was sitting in seat 5A, next to the window, was wondering why Voldemort had consigned him to mere muggle transport. Granted, it was first class, but the Dark Lord's driving ambition was a genocidal rage against this vehicle's inventors—certainly, if Snape was one of his most trusted and valued advisors and confidants, he would not be forced into "puddlejumping" without an explanation. Snape recovered from his reverie and regarded the muggle adjacent to him, a shapely muggle woman of Indian stock in a crisp suit who was obviously worried about something. 

"Are you quite alright?" he asked her, not unkindly.

"I'm bloody terrified of flying. I've puddle jumped every month for three years for business, but I've never gotten over flying. Taking off is the worst part," she said, grimacing. "You must think I'm daft,"

"Not in the least," Snape replied hurriedly. The only part of Snape that could be described as slick was his hair—which he was very fervently wishing he had a better shampoo for. The woman tried to smile, but she just looked queasy as the Boeing's pilot threw open the throttle. Snape marveled at muggles as the jets' rotors started whirring, positively vacuuming all the surrounding air into them. He couldn't help but think that even Voldemort would have to marvel at the sheer power of an airplane. The plane lunged, hurtling down the runway with a vengeance, finally shoving the suit-clad potions master back into his upright and locked seatback. He peered out of his window at the rapidly shrinking metropolis and then stole a glance at his companion, who had her eyes clinched resoundingly shut as the PA ponged warmly and a strange synergy of Bronx, Russian, and Puerto Rican accents started talking.

"Welcome aboard flight 0117 to New York City-Kennedy International. My name is Dimitri Vazquez and I'll be your captain for today. We don't expect much trouble for today, so our flight should be about five and a half hours in duration. We'll be serving a light lunch about an hour before we land. Our in flight entertainment will be…" the pilot's voice trailed off "…_Waterworld_, starring Kevin Costner. So please sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight, and let us know if we can do anything for you."

"Not _Waterworld_. What a bloody horrible film," groaned the woman sitting next to Snape.

"I've never seen it, myself," Snape remarked.

"I daresay most of us haven't, unless you fly as much as I do," she remarked dryly, withdrawing a copy of the _Times _(of London) from her bag. "Care for the paper?"

"Oh, yes, please," the sinister potions master replied, wishing he would be able to work during the flight. He withdrew United's magazine from the seatpocket, bored out of his mind. It contained nothing interesting, just a profile of some muggle group called Nirvana, who apparently had just released a "live album", whatever that was.

"So, what is it you do for a living?" asked Snape's companion, turning towards him. "I'm Namrata Kothari, by the way." She extended her hand. Snape shook it firmly.

"Severus Snape. I am a teacher, actually. Secondary school. I teach… chemistry."

"Severus? That's an interesting one,"

"An emperor of Rome, actually. One of the worse ones," he admitted ruefully.

Namrata chortled. "Well, at least you aren't the Nero of grammar schools,"

"Such as it is," he replied. "What is it you do?" he asked.

"I'm a software engineer, for Oracle. I shuttle between New York and London. I'm more of a manager now," Kothari replied wistfully. "It's a terrible job,"

"I'll be the judge of that," the Professor replied, his cadence taking its usual sneering, slick tone.

"I suppose so."

The beverage cart arrived shortly thereafter, but Snape and Kothari were too engrossed in conversation to answer.

* * *

About four o'clock Cuzco time, Lord Voldemort's head appeared in the fire that don Pacahuti Mirabal always kept burning in his compound. 

"Riddle. I'll fetch Pacahuti," Rodrigo Santana said, looking up from an agent's report.

The English Dark Lord bristled at the percieved slight. What did the lowly Peruvian think he was, addressing a Dark Lord by name? Fuming, and thinking of all the ways he would punish a similar insubordination in his own ranks. Mirabál strode in shortly, Santana at his side.

"Yes, Lord Riddle? I have precious little time. We are about to replicate more dementors," the wizard said, apologetic.

"I shall not occupy you, Lord Mirabál." Voldemort said in his icy, grating tone. "I have sent an operative for Dumbledore over to you. He thinks I do not know of his betrayal as of yet. He will arrive at Lima's… airport… in seven hours."

"Very well." Mirabál said pleasantly. "Is that all?"

"Yes." Voldemort was wary, expecting something in return. Still, he made to leave the fire.

"Riddle, you'll need to send over extra help if I am to do this," Mirabál announced, just as pleasant as before. "Lucius Malfoy is particularly adept with the transfiguratory arts, is he not?" A continent and an ocean away, Voldemort gritted his fanglike teeth, then swallowed. Mirabál was no uppity underling. He was, in fact, a member of the Cabal of Five, the council of the superlative Dark Wizards.

"He is. I shall dispatch him in two days' time. We have an important action to stage."

"I understand completely, Tom. Contact us if you will need anything else." Voldemort nodded sharply, then left the Floo. Mirabál turned to his subordinate. "Off to Lima, Rodrigo."

* * *

Severus Snape's flight from JFK was landing in Lima. He had Namrata Kothari's phone number in his pocket and a far happier outlook than he'd ever had in his life. 

"Bievenidos a Lima, señores y señoras. Llegarémos al terminal en unos pocos minutos. Por favor les quedía en sus asientos hasta estámos a la puerta. De todos el tripulación, estámos contento que han selectado United."

The 757 taxied to the terminal, as calm as the sky above. Snape, however, felt his trepidation grow as they approached the building. His doubts that sprung from his condemntation to muggle transport had risen again.

He collected his book (some trashy muggle paperback) and his luggage and shuffled off the plane, resenting the single aisle. Feeling much like a steer, the erstwhile Dark wizard trooped up the jetway with those he had once sworn to leave dying in the streets. Needless to say, Snape didn't hold much stock in irony.

"Severus Snape?" asked a tall, muscled man at the exit of the jetway.

"Yes,"

The man extended his hand. "Rodrigo Santana. I am don Pacahuti's second. He regrets not being able to meet you personally, but the experiment is occupying all of his attentions at the moment."

"I understand." Snape adopted the surly demeanor he usually took around his students.

"I have a driver awaiting us outside. May I carry something?" Snape gratefully handed his massive duffel bag to Santana. The car, a handsomely appointed Mercedes-Benz E Class sedan, was idling at the entrance to the terminal. A white gloved driver was standing at its side. He immediately took the bag as Santana motioned for Snape to get inside first. The potions master nodded and slid in.

"It will take us about four hours to arrive in Cuzco. Something to drink?"

"Ogden's." Snape said, trying to sound impatient.

"We only have Jack Daniel's. Ogden's is quite rare here,"

"Whatever whiskey you have," Snape snapped. He _did_ need a drink, now that he thought of it. Santana opened the small refrigerator he'd had installed in the place of a middle seat, withdrawing the precious firewater.

"Ice?"

"Yes." The driver wordlessly passed a glass of ice back.

"Una mas, Alejandro." Santana poured out a shot for each of them.

"Salud," he said gravely, raising his glass to Snape. Snape did the same, then took a long pull.

* * *

This was the worst part. Santana wouldn't have minded using a plain old .45, but don Pacahuti insisted upon wizardry. His one fault, Santana mused, oddly detached. At least the gringo was out. 

"_Avada kedavra._"

**SIGN UP FOR THE CAVE**


	16. Quetzalcoatl's Pyre

The Quetzal's Fire

Harry Potter

**Part Sixteen: Quetzalcoatl's Pyre**

Herein is the legend of the Fire of Quetzalcoatl.

When the God That Is Bird and Snake sailed east, he lit a pyre of two final sacrifices, and a warning. Turning to the highest priest of his order:

"You and your line will rule our two people. Yet, I see it will end when it is greatest. Topiltzin, do not abandon us. We will struggle. We will return. I will return. The fire must stay lit, but it must be contained: my anger shall know no bounds."

Thus: he entered his ship and sailed to the east.

Yet, Topiltzin did not know of two people. There was only the Toltec, and the Toltec would remain. But the Toltec fell. Finally, the Aztecs returned Lake Texoco to its glory. Tenochtitlán was founded, and it flourished. The Great Temple was built, the gods had their sacrifice, and all was well.

Then Cortéz came.

In the Empire's death throes, as the treacherous Cortéz deceived Moctezuma into believing that the conquistador was in fact Quetzalcoatl, the god that was both Quetzal bird and Snake, returned to resume his holy rule over the Aztecs. The Spanish conqueror had come to conquer, enslave, and steal, however. He unleashed plagues, slaughtered citizens in the streets, and pilfered the most sacred of artifacts from the Aztecs' temples. Yet, something that escaped his notice had greater importance to those wizards of latter days.

As the white men captured Tenochtitlán, the disciples of Quetzalcoatl at the Great Temple fulfilled their responsibility. The fire of the Quetzal was to be sent to the greatest city of the Maya, Tikal. In a secret antechamber located directly under the altars where prisoners were sacrificed to the gods, the priest of the Great Temple and his protégé, were attempting to stave off a doom more ultimate than the fall of their empire.

"With haste! The devils are about to take the final causeway. Texococo is to fall tomorrow. If you do not leave now, the sacred Fire will be in the hands of those who do not understand it. You know what would happen in that case." The high priest looked sternly at his quaking initiate. "You have been chosen to perpetuate our holy order. The rest of us will ruin as many of the Castillanos as we may. You are devout. You are strong. Do not fail us, . The world looks to you for redemption. Out! They are storming the steps." The High Priest thrust a nondescript granite box into the acolyte's hand, seized his obsidian sword, and donned his leopard helmet.

The adolescent would-be cleric took the granite box with trepidation. Despite the remarkable heat it contained, the granite was cool.

Spaniards, conquistadors, were charging the Great Temple, roaring as they shot or cut the priests that dared to defend their holiest of sites. The acolyte was secure in the knowledge that they did not know what he carried. He was less sure (as was the High Priest) that the white men would be deemed impure in the presence of Quetzalcoatl's Fire. All he knew was that he would have to flee to Tikal, where the conquistadors would not be able to find him. There, where Quetzalcoatl was also recognized among the greatest of gods, they would be safe. The order would be intact, and the fire would burn.

**

* * *

A/N: **This chapter requires some explination, I know. That will come later. For now, just know that this is the backstory. Neither Harry nor anyone from the 20th century will appear for some time.  
So, here's the start of the story.


	17. The King, the Wizard, and Los Indios

The Quetzal's Fire

Harry Potter

**Part Seventeen: The Once and Future King, the Wizard, and los Indios**

The young initiate had walked hundreds of miles, from Lake Toxoco to what we know as the Yucatán. The Spaniards had not made it this far, it seemed, but the Maya were not exactly ignorant of their presence on their continent. Each of the small villages the acolyte had passed through had heard strange rumors. Aztec refugees were fleeing the encroaching Castilians with great haste.

Finally, reached Tikal.

Yet the great city of the Maya was not so great any more. The initiate met a platoon of soldiers marching out of the gates to do battle with a nearby city. All of the Yucatán, it seemed, was fighting itself. knew they would be doomed when the Spaniards arrived.

Yet he still made his way to the temple of Quetzalcoatl and sought the advice and assistance of its sages.

The highest priest there listened to the story of his plight and studied the sunburnt boy, his own leathery forehead wrinkling in concentration.

"We have heard a great deal about these conquerors. I do not think we will survive them. The prince refuses to take an audience from any of the other cities' princes unless they swear allegiance to him. We will be crushed remorselessly."

As grim as they come.

"You must flee to the south. A group of merchants will be going to Cuzco in a week."

"Cuzco? Is that one of your southern cities?" the initiate was baffled.

The priest looked at the floor guiltily.

"No. The Inca tribe owns it. Do you know them?"

looked at him blankly.

"They are as great as the Aztecs. Go."

The mysterious events of _Centroamerica_ described here could not have meant anything to a Briton, much less ones that lived hundreds of years before.

Yet they did.

When Quetzalcoatl sailed across the sea, he came to Britain itself. The Romans had just left. A new kingdom was rising: England. Its king, of course, was Arthur.

It shouldn't take much for you to realize that Quetzalcoatl was somewhat endowed magically.

The tales of Arthur and Merlin have been described many times. Doubtless we all know that Merlin went into a deep sleep somewhere in Britain. What we did not know, until this legend was related, was that he also left a small canister of fire in the hands of the Aztecs, who then left it in the hands of the Inca.

Thus, the legend of the fire of Quetzalcoatl.

Unfortunately for those living at the tail end of the twentieth century, the order that had formed in the Andes to protect the fire from any madmen had been usurped and their sacred treasure had been taken by the Dark Lord, Pacahuti Mirabál, and sold to one Dark Lord Voldemort for the purpose of an insane genocidal campaign against all those without magic. What Voldemort did _not_ understand was in fact that unleashing Quetzalcoatl's Fire would in fact kill just about everyone on the earth.

What will be done?

Well, that, of course, is the story that is unfolding before you here.


End file.
